On the Brink of the World's End

by Brian Stableford

  A few minutes later, the ten million francs was deposited in the safe; the receipt was drawn up at the magistrate’s request as follows:

  The Caisse des Dépôts and Consignations has today received, from the hands of Monsieur le Juge d’Instruction de Landré, in the presence of Monsieur le Procureur Général, Monsieur le Chef de la Sûreté and Monsieur Alivet, chief of service at the Universel Crédit, the sum of ten million francs in thousand-franc bills of the Banque de France. That sum, which there is every reason to believe to be that paid out by the financial establishments of the Universel Crédit to someone named Joe Helly in payment of a check signed A. H. Terrick, is consigned to the disposition of the central court.

  Then the various actors in the scene separated, after swearing on oath not to divulge anything of it

  Monsieur de Landré accompanied his superior to his office.

  “Monsieur le Procureur Général, will you permit me now to keep the investigation of the Charfland affair? The results of this morning’s enquiry have changed my conviction into indisputable certainty; in a matter of days, I can enable you to witness the confession of the accused. Will you now grant me the delay I am requesting for the good of the law?”

  “Monsieur le Juge, the situation has indeed changed since this morning; I recognize that the recovery of the ten millions constitutes a commencement of proof; I’ll grant you a week. I’ll explain to the Garde des Sceaux.”

  “Thank you, Monsieur le Procureur Général, but I beg you in the interests of the investigation not to say explicitly what the commencement of proof I’ve discovered is; that might compromise the success of what I still have to do.”

  “Agreed.”

  The two men separated, Monsieur de Landré radiant, the prosecutor thinking about the explanations that he would have to give to the Minister, but fundamentally glad to be able to hope that the magistrate, whom he held personally in high esteem, had every chance of emerging unscathed from the tight spot into which the unfortunate affair had placed him.

  Monsieur de Landré sent Max Semper, in New York, a cablegram saying simply: Take first steamer urgently.

  A few days went by, in the course of which Monsieur de Landré worked tirelessly; he ran hither and yon, saw a great many people, rehearsed veritable roles. He was even seen in the offices of a large cinematograph company.

  In the meantime, the accused and his advocate knew nothing about the strange steps that the magistrate was taking. As for public opinion, it had been calmed by a statement from the chancellery affirming that the Charfland affair would be definitely concluded within a week.

  Six days after the depositing of the ten millions, Monsieur de Landré notified Charfland by way of a clerk, and his advocate by way of a secretary, that there would be a reconstruction of the crime the following day.

  He telephoned the news to the public prosecutor, giving him to understand that the reconstitution in question would be a landmark in the annals of crime. The prosecutor, as the magistrate had expected, manifested his intention to witness it.

  “Meet at eight o’clock in the morning at the family boarding-house,” the magistrate told him, and added: “It will certainly last all day; lunch is arranged, don’t worry about that.”

  Charfland had not understood the notification that had been made to him; he lost himself in conjectures, but his composure and aplomb did not abandon him. He had received a visit from his bewildered advocate, who told him that the notification had arrived without any prior warning; it could only be a matter of a farce or a crude intimidation, but whatever it might be, he was not to worry about it; his clear conscience would enable him to avoid the trap that they wanted to set for him.

  The advocate had then gone to see the magistrate and had expressed his surprise at the unexpected indication, no new facts having emerged so far as he knew.

  “Maître,” the magistrate had replied, “the manner in which the crime was committed is known, but that knowledge has come to me independently of the accused; the latter has been able to tell you that no interrogation has been addressed to him in your absence; the announced reconstruction will summarize the entire investigation; the truth will be manifest; I can tell you no more.”

  Slightly angered by what he had just hard, the celebrated advocate adopted a high tone: “Pay attention, Monsieur le Juge. For six months, scornful of all justice, you have been keeping an innocent man in jail. At the moment when, under the pressure of public opinion, you’re about to be obliged to release my client or be relieved of the case—you can see that I’m well-informed—you’re going to play a comedy of intimidation that can have no result, since you do not have the guilty party in hand.

  “Be careful! This latest fashion of acting will considerably augment the moral charges that weigh upon you; you have already been reproached for the weakness with which you have undertaken this investigation; public opinion, when it is fully informed—and it will be, I guarantee—will be manifest in such a fashion that someone stronger than you would be swept away by it. Beware!”

  “Maître, this time tomorrow, you will have changed your opinion. The reconstruction of the crime that cost the life of the entire Terrick family will take place tomorrow; I confirm that the rendezvous is at eight o’clock at the house where the murder was committed; I warn you that the reconstruction will take all day. Lunch is arranged. If you want to do us the honor of sharing it with us, you will be welcome.”

  The advocate eluded that courteous invitation with a gesture, simply replying: I shall be at the boarding-house at eight o’clock tomorrow with my two secretaries.”

  The magistrate then received the American detective Max Semper, who had already presented himself the day before and had been asked to return.

  “Mr. Semper, the moment has come to tell you why I cabled asking you to cross the Atlantic. I have absolute, crushing proof of the culpability of Charfland, but the most curious thing is that neither he nor his advocate knows anything about the evidence in question. It’s not possible for me to inform you regarding the circumstances that led me to the great discovery.

  “That having been made and verified, instead of recommencing an investigation set by step, which would take time and might permit the accused to concoct a defense as the charges were put to him, I’ve decided to attempt a reconstruction of the crime on the spot, including the salient facts that preceded and followed it.

  “The accused, before that resurrection of all his actions, will not be able to maintain his composure; he will give himself away, confess…because he will not be able to imagine that the detailed scenes could be organized without irrefutable witnesses having been heard.

  “It’s necessary that he confess. If I insist on that—you’ll be astonished—it’s because, if he doesn’t confess, I shall be defenseless against him, even though I can guarantee to you the veracity of all the details of the affair. When he takes account of the fact that I am even able to know what he was thinking at certain moments of his actions, vertigo will grip him; he’ll confess everything.

  “I am assured of the collaboration of a phonocinematograph, which will replay the principal scenes; that way, nothing will escape us of the various movements and exclamations provoked in the accused by tomorrow’s reenactment.

  “It will be very interesting—you’ll see. But in sum, it’s not for that reason that I permitted myself to cable you to come. After the confession, in the profound depression in which our man will find himself, I believe that something might be obtained from him on the subject of the Invisible Gang of which you suspect him of being a part. That will then be your affair; if the result satisfies you, I shall have thanked you for the great service you rendered me in permitting me to arrest the criminal and keep him in prison, under the pretext of waiting for the famous rogatory commission that you sent.”

  Delighted, Max Semper thanked Monsieur de Landré and tried, but in vain, to find out how the magistrate had finally discovered the truth. They separated, having agreed t
o meet again the following morning.

  V

  This is the story of that fantastic day:

  At the appointed time, Charfland, framed by two solid police inspectors, followed by his advocate and the latter’s two secretaries, made his entrance into the apartment occupied by the widowed Madame Durand’s family boarding-house.

  In the antechamber there is no one but an inspector, who indicates that the new arrivals should go into the first room on the right—which was, it will be remembered—the room once reserved for Charfland.

  The accused goes in without any apparent concern, but he immediately starts violently and stops, stupefied. He has just perceived, sitting at the little table where he had the habit of reading, facing the door, a man who resembles him in every regard: it is incontestably his double.

  The accused’s gaze shifts and he perceives, motionless and silent, standing in a corner, a number of men in frock-coasts, among whom he recognizes the examining magistrate Monsieur de Landré, his clerk and his secretary, accompanied by the public prosecutor and the detective Max Semper. A cinematograph is installed in another corner of the room.

  “What is this comedy?” asks the principal defender, gazing at the individual disguised as Charfland.

  Without waiting for a reply, Charfland, recovered from his emotion, calms his advocate. “My dear Maître, if these Messieurs want to amuse themselves with this buffoonery, let them. What would be the result of protesting, if not to create doubt in their minds?”

  “All right,” said the advocate.

  “Then we’ll begin,” announced Monsieur de Landré, while he pressed the button of a dissimulated bell discreetly.

  In order to simplify the story that follows, we shall now designate by the name of “Charfland” the disguised policeman who is about to play the principal role, whereas we shall allude to the true guilty party as “the real Charfland.”

  Charfland, therefore, his head between his hands and his elbows leaning on the table, thinks aloud:

  “Mr. Terrick, since we’re now neighbors, it’s just the two of us! Ah, you didn’t want to conform with the orders of the Invisible Gang! A little more and you’d have had us pinched. You think you’re free of the tax of two million dollars that I imposed on you; your account here at the financial establishments of the Universel Crédit is, however, good for that sum!

  “I’ve been able to get ahead of you by two days; with my check, old lady Durand couldn’t refuse me this room and I’m now the only other guest, with you, in this apartment. Lady Durand has to absent herself from time to time, but there’s still the maid. What shall I do?

  “Anyway, let’s let a few days go by; I’ll succeed in making use of her or rendering it impossible for her to get in my way. It’s extraordinary how comfortable I feel. Yes, truly, it’s easier to carry out a coup absolutely alone; I’m sheltered from any treason or clumsiness on the part of the Gang’s accomplices. Of course, they won’t get their full share of the profits, since, alone and without their knowledge, I’m taking the risks of bringing the affair to a successful conclusion.”

  At the moment when the monologist pronounced the words “Invisible Gang” the real Charfland went pale, in spite of the attention that he sensed he was the object on the part of the witnesses of the scene. He made the brief reflection: I seem to have seen the man next to the magistrate somewhere in New York. Then he resumed his habitual self-composure.

  And the scene continues:

  Charfland rings. Thérèse Vila—a double—knocks on the door, comes in and stops, intimidated by the piercing gaze launched sat her by the client. The examination lasts for a few seconds during which the poor girl seems disconcerted; a nervous frisson runs through her.

  “Please bring my tea,” says Charfland, finally.

  “Yes, Monsieur,” stammers the maid.

  When she has gone the guest resumes his monologue: “If I’m not mistaken, that woman ought to be an excellent subject; that would be truly lucky; I need to find out right away what I can do.”

  The maidservant comes back in, carrying a tray that she sets down on the little table. She dare not raise her eyes, so much does the gaze that weighs upon her seem to disturb her. When she has completed her task, she raises her head. Charfland stands up; his fixed gaze expresses a will-power extended to excess. Thérèse Vila seems to vacillate. The man makes a few rapid magnetic passes, and then brings up a chair; the hypnotized woman sits down.

  “She’s soundly entranced,” murmurs the hypnotist. “She’s a remarkable subject. It’s mere child’s play for me to mold her as I please, but it’s necessary to proceed in stages.” In a low voice, and an authoritarian tone, he goes on: “Thérèse, I forbid you—I forbid you, you understand, ever to repeat what I command you to say and do. Tell me that you’ll obey that order.”

  “Yes,” murmurs the sleeper, shuddering.

  “Now, tonight you’re going to come to say this to me: ‘I will obey your will, and I will never speak about your orders.’”

  The magnetizer then makes a few passes; the poor neurotic wakes up, and Charfland this time in a soft voice, says: “You have a weakness, my child. It’s necessary not to fatigue yourself too much.”

  And the domestic leaves, accompanying her exit with a faint: “Oh, it’s nothing, Monsieur.”

  The presence of the actress made up as Thérèse Vila did not disturb the accused overmuch. They must have succeeded in making the poor wretch talk, he thought. My defense is easy; the tale of a visionary, subject to several influences, as that seems to be the case, doesn’t constitute evidence. I only have to deny it; my advocate will do the rest; it will even be a good subject for his speech, assuming that they drag me to the Assizes.

  The advocate, irritated by the spectacle whose outcome he cannot anticipate, poses his question once again, addressing the public prosecutor: “But in sum, what does this comedy signify?”

  The prosecutor simply responds: “Monsieur le Juge d’Instruction is conducting his investigation as he sees fit; you have nothing to say for the moment, since, duly summoned, you are present. Afterwards, you will be able to draw all the conclusions you wish.”

  There is nothing to reply.

  Monsieur de Landré speaks then, declaring: “Now we come to the eve of the crime.”

  At a sign the electric light is switched on and the blinds lowered.

  Charfland resumes his monologue: “The first proof that I imposed on Thérèse succeeded perfectly, as have those which followed. The girl is in my power; I can count on her. She’s just told me that her mistress will be leaving early tomorrow morning and will be absent all day. The moment has come to act. Let’s first prepare the innocent accomplice for her role.”

  He rings. Thérèse appears; a single gaze; a single word: “Sleep!” and the subject, remarkable indeed, collapses on a chair, prey to magnetic sleep.

  With his muted, commanding voice, the traveler gives her the following orders:

  “You will sleep all night.

  “Tomorrow, you will not enter the Terrick’s apartment before your mistress has departed.

  “At one o’clock you will lock the doors of the large drawing room, without going in; you will keep the keys.

  “You will instruct the housekeepers not to go into that drawing room, where the Terrick family is gathered.

  “When your mistress returns, you will tell her that the members of the Terrick family, being indisposed, have not left the drawing room all day.

  In the middle of the following night you will replace the keys in the drawing room doors, unlock them, and go back to bed.”

  Three times he repeated those orders, assuring himself after each repetition that the subject has understood and will obey.

  Thérèse is immediately woken up and leaves.

  The accused remains thoughtful and absorbed, but nothing betrays his emotion.

  Charfland takes off his boots and puts on light carpet-slippers. He goes to one of his valises, opens a locked c
ompartment with a key and takes out a kind of medical kit, which he places on the table; then he puts bottles, tampons, a small box and a mask in his jacket pockets.

  At the sight of those preparations the accused is seized by a kind of tremor, which he has difficulty mastering.

  Charfland takes out his watch. “It’s ten o’clock; old Durand’s asleep; the children and the governess are in bed; the two Terricks are reading in the drawing room. Let’s go—it’s time.” He opens the door cautiously and murmurs, with satisfaction: “An apartment of this sort is delightful; not a single door creaks, and the thick carpets stifle all footfalls.”

  He turns right and goes along the gallery, guided by rays of light that are escaping from the drawing room do. He turns right into the corridor and stops in front of the cloakroom. He goes in prudently and, switching on a pocket electric torch, climbs on to a stool in order to detach one of the two wires activating all the bells in the apartment. It is evident that he is thinking: One never knows what might happen.

  Emerging from the cloakroom he retraces his steps. He pauses for breath in front of the drawing room door, covers his face with the mask and, with infinite precaution, turns the handle and pushes the door; no creak is produced.

  The witnesses following the leading actor can see, gathered around the large table illuminated by the lamps of the chandelier, the entire Terrick family, reconstituted by skillfully disguised actors.

  Mr. and Mrs. Terrick are to the left on entering, comfortably installed in large armchairs; he is reading a newspaper, she a book. Facing the door, the two little girls are on their knees on chairs, to either side on the governess, who is standing up and leafing through a large album of pictures.

  The malefactor has entered without anyone noticing his presence. He murmurs: “Ah! I thought I’d only find two here.” But as the governess looks up at that moment he does not hesitate, takes out of his pocket a kind of vaporizer and, with a circular movement, launches a jet of liquid into the faces of the five individuals present, who, under the effect of the instantaneous narcotic, appear to go to sleep. The scene has been so rapid that one can easily imagine how a coup thus carried out might succeed.