The Nyctalope and The Tower of Babel
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The Nyctalope and The Tower of Babel
Jean de LA HIRE
The Cross of Blood
translated by Jessica Sequeira
Emmanuel GORLIER
The Tower of Babel
translated by Michael Shreve
introduced by Jean-Marc Lofficier
BLACK COAT PRESS
TABLE OF CONTENTS
Introduction 4
Jean de La Hire: The Cross of Blood 8
PART ONE 8
PART TWO 154
Emmanuel Gorlier: The Tower of Babel 216
FRENCH MYSTERIES COLLECTION 362
Introduction
La Croix de Sang (translated here by Jessica Sequeira as The Cross of Blood) was first serialized in the daily newspaper Le Matin in 1941, before being reissued in book form by publisher Simon later that year. It was reprinted in a somewhat edited and abridged version by Hauteville in 1953, bizarrely and meaninglessly retitled La Croix du Sang, as No. 16 in their imprint. « Les Grandes Aventures du Nyctalope » [The Nyctalope’s Greatest Adventures].
Unlike most of the other Nyctalope novels, The Cross of Blood is a fantasy/horror thriller. Its atmosphere is one of subtle terror, and Saint-Clair’s foe, Armand Logreux d’Albury, the so-called “Master of the Seven Lights,” has powers so deadly that the Nyctalope does not dare to attack him directly—perhaps for the first time in his career—preferring instead to rely on a cunning stratagem.
According to our timeline of the Nyctalope’s adventures, The Cross of Blood takes place in January 1925. In 1924, Léo mounted an expedition to Tibet (in L’Amazone du Mont Everest) during which he had an affair with Queen Mizzeia Khali, which may have cost him his marriage with Laurence Païli (see The Nyctalope vs Lucifer). Also, his two previous assistants, Pilou and Corsat, left, and he was forced to recruit two replacements, the Corsican Vitto and Soca, whom he had met during the Great War.
La Tour de Babel (translated here by Michael Shreve as The Tower of Babel) was written by Emmanuel Gorlier as a sequel to The Cross of Blood, and was originally published in the French edition of Tales of the Shadowmen, Les Compagnons de l’Ombre, Volumes 15 and 16. It takes place in late 1931, after the battle between Léo and the vampiric princess Alouh Tho (in Les Mystères de Lyon). Léo is then married to Sylvie Mac Dhul, with whom he had a son named Pierre—or “Petit Pierre” to separate him from an earlier Pierre whose mother was Xavière de Ciserat (see The Nyctalope on Mars).
One character who plays an important part in this novel is Engineer Maur Korridès. Korridès first appeared in Le Trésor dans l’Abîme [The Treasure in the Abyss] (1907), Le Corsaire Sous-Marin [The Undersea Corsair] (1912-13), then directly against Léo in Titania (1929).
Korridès was likely born around 1877 and became a brilliant scientist and engineer in 1900. In 1902, he synthesized heliose, a substance not unlike cavorite which is attracted by the sun while not being subject to any other attraction. Thanks to this discovery, Korridès built two ships, one to explore the oceans (which could also fly through the air), and the other to travel through interplanetary space. Korridès also invented a revolutionary autonomous diving suit, featuring a motorized articulated exoskeleton capable of operating at great depths. Amongst other inventions of his were a disintegrating ray and a solar-powered helicopter.
Due to overwork and lack of recognition from his peers, Korridès fell into a deep depression and had to be committed to a mental hospital where he stayed until 1907. During that time, his first wife (identity unknown) passed away.
In 1907, he was released thanks to the intervention of an American billionaire seeking to recover a safe from a sunken ocean liner [The Treasure in the Abyss]. Korridès provided an underwater vehicle powered by heliose and articulated high-pressure suits. The expedition was a success. Unfortunately, heliose and gold reacted together, becoming an unstable explosive that caused the death of the billionaire and the destruction of his ship. Korridès then married Marguerite Dormach, who had been part of the doomed expedition.
For the next seven years, the Korridèses, whom everyone believed to have died in the explosion, lived secretly in the United States under the identity of Mr. and Mrs. James Norton.
In 1912, Léo de Malterre, a.k.a. the Black Corsair, having stolen a prototype experimental submarine from the French Navy, declared war on the U.S. and Venezuela, whom he blamed for the death of his family and the disappearance of their fortune [The Undersea Corsair]. The Nyctalope briefly intervened in that world-spanning conflict by receiving and forwarding to the French authorities the so-called “scientific testament” of Korridès.
In 1914, Korridès and Marguerite left the Earth to go to Mars aboard a heliose-powered spaceship. The details of their stay on the Red Planet remain unknown. But in 1917, Korridès returned alone, broken, aged and embittered. It is likely that Marguerite died on Mars under brutal circumstances, possibly linked to the destruction of the Martian colony set up by Oxus. This would also explain Korridès’ subsequent opposition to the Nyctalope, given the violent role he played in these events.
Between 1917 and 1926, Korridès worked for the Bolsheviks and the evil mastermind Leonid Zattan. After Zattan’s death, he married Diana Ivanovna Krosnoview, the Red Princess, and, with her, founded a terrorist group of hashishin, which she ran under the nom-de-guerre Titania [Titania].
Korridès and Diana had a son, Hugues Mézarek, who will later return under the alias of Belzébuth. The hashishin attacked the Nyctalope and captured his family. Léo managed to free them and take both villains prisoners. Both die in captivity: Diana is murdered in her cell by a gypsy girl; after learning the news, Korridès committed suicide—or did he?
Now read on!
Jean-Marc & Randy Lofficier
Jean de La Hire: The Cross of Blood
PART ONE
CHAPTER I
An Atmosphere of Terror
At 8:30 a.m. on the morning of Tuesday, January 20, checking the day’s post at his residence in Paris, Léo Saint-Clair found the following letter:
La Hêtraie1,
Saint-Christophe-sur-le-Nais (Indre-et-Loire)
19 January 1925
My dear friend,
Eight years ago, in the unforgettable circumstances of war, we swore to one another immediate and absolute assistance should a grave danger ever threaten one of us or a human being we love. Saint-Clair, by virtue of your oath, come to me—come to us, quickly! I will wait for you.
Jacques d’Hermont.
PS. Don’t answer. Just come! Come with your men, for there is no doubt that you will need them. You can pay me a “surprise” visit at Beech Grove, to have lunch with me as I have often asked you to do. In case you are invited to hunt wild boars in the Périgord, have your guns and ammunition ready.
J. d’H.
After reading this, the Nyctalope did not hesitate a moment. He picked up the phone and said immediately:
“Vitto? Call Soca. Bring the car and the three Hammerless guns. We leave in half an hour.”
At 9:00 a.m., the powerful gray roadster crossed the intersection of the old Porte d’Orléans and raced toward Chartres through Palaiseau, Orsay and Ably. From Paris to Saint-Christophe-sur-le-Nais, the most direct route was 240 kilometers. At 11:45 p.m. exactly, Saint-Clair arrived in front of the town hall of Saint-Christophe. At that moment, a man wearing leggings, a short leather jacket and a kepi with silver braid appeared; he was the county’s game warden.
“Monsieur,” said Saint-Clair, with a military salute, “would you point the way to Beech Grove?”
The Nyctalope had never visited his brother-in-arms before.
“You can see the castle from here,” t
he game warden replied, stretching out his right arm. “Up there, on the hill, between the two woods.”
The three men looked in the direction the game warden had indicated. To the east of the village, down the hill, there was a pretty valley through which a big stream wound its way; it was bordered by elm trees and a railway on the embankment. Beyond it rose a hill, its bare fields on a slope with a big forest on top. Through the gap, one could see a gray building with slate roofs, flanked by two dovetowers.
“To get there,” the game warden continued, “go through the village, and, at the next crossroad, take the road that goes over the Nais and the railway. It will take you straight to the castle.”
“Thank you, my friend.”
Having slid five francs into the hand of the obliging man, Saint-Clair put his car back in motion.
That winter day was luminous and cold, with a strong wind from the northeast. The picturesque village, the valley planted with elms and poplars, and the hill of Beech Grove formed the center of a well-ordered landscape, agreeable to the eye and sweet to the spirit; the country between Tours and Le Mans offered many similarly pretty landscapes for tourists. The Nyctalope had to repeat to himself the pressing terms of the enigmatic letter of appeal he had received to imagine that any drama could take place in such a beautiful countryside, still charming despite the winter.
After a flat stretch, the road started climbing abruptly, becoming like a shallow trench through the fields. Then, quite suddenly, it turned into a beautiful path bordered by two rows of lime trees with branches cut short. Ahead, they spotted a metal gate open between two old walls.
The path went on, flanked by young pines. The roadster skirted a vast stretch of lawn, overhung by a magnificent grove of immense beeches with gray trunks and bare, almost rose-colored branches. The other side of the lawn was bordered by a similar canopy. This grove, stretching out over the high plain and projecting over the bastions of several parts of the castle, circled the main building on three sides.
The front entrance stood between two towers in the southwest and had big front steps, a tall door, eight balcony windows on the ground floor, nine windows on the upper floor and nine skylights in the attic. Certainly, Beech Grove must also have servants’ quarters, but none could be seen. Saint-Clair thought they must be hidden behind the castle.
Just then, at the very moment the automobile stopped before the front steps, a smaller door opened within the monumental larger one, and a man appeared. Quickly he began to descend the twelve steps, each of his strides double their usual breadth.
Saint-Clair had jumped to the ground, which was covered thickly with gravel, as Vitto took the wheel and Soca prepared to carry the suitcases.
Now, seeing the man who came toward him, the Nyctalope had trouble recognizing the splendid captain of the Alpine Hunters from the Great War.
In his mind he cried out, stupefied: “Jacques d’Hermont, but a mere ghost of what he once was…” But nothing in his face, his look, his voice, betrayed his thoughts, and he remained distant from this friend, whom he had lost from view after the War, this friend who was now so different from the image he had kept in his mind.
All at once, the “comedy” planned in advance began, as plotted in the postscript in the letter.
“Ah! What a surprise! What a lovely surprise!” the chatelain explained in a shrill voice, taking and shaking the two hands that the Nyctalope held out to him. “My good friend Saint-Clair! At Beech Grove, at last! How is it possible? Why didn’t you warn me? The telegraph... the telephone... But it doesn’t matter! I am so happy to see you! You will explain everything. But first, let me shake the hands of our companions. They were our soldiers, Saint-Clair, among the very best. You had the power to keep them in your service and they had the pleasure of staying with you. Make yourselves at home, my friends.”
After the presentations, he turned back toward the Nyctalope, he added:
“Saint-Clair, you plan to stay for several days, I hope? At last, I have you here, after so many invitations in the past! No? What say you?”
Entering into the game, Saint-Clair laughed energetically, shaking his head. And with a full, deep voice that carried far, he declared:
“I’m going to hunt near Brantôme, in the Périgord, my dear friend! They are waiting for me there to begin hunting wild boars. So I don’t think I’ll be staying here for more than a few hours…”
“Oh!” exclaimed the chatelain, admirably feigning sorrow and indignation.
Saint-Clair thought: Why is he playing this comedy so well? Does he know, or believe, that he is being watched? Let us continue this game.
So, he went on, at once serious and polite:
“But I must say, d’Hermont, that it would be a great sorrow not to accept your very kind offer.”
“Yes, indeed!”
This was said with evident sincerity.
“Well then!” said Saint-Clair. “I’ll send a telegram. They can hunt the wild boars without me; at least for a few days.”
“Ah! Yes!” exclaimed the chatelaine, once again visibly reassured.
“Yes. I don’t know this part of the Touraine countryside. It seems very charming. And what sweetness in the air! In fact, a bit of balm for my nervous system is just what I need. The atmosphere, the landscape… and your friendship, my dear d’Hermont! It will be a great opportunity for me to rest a little, and such a contrast to those days and nights I spent with you in the trenches!”
“So you will stay, then?”
“Yes, I will.”
“For several days?”
“For a whole week if you like.”
“Ah! What pleasure you give me!”
This quick dialogue took place at the foot of the steps. Before taking the first walk with Saint-Clair, Jacques d’Hermont went on to add in a joyful tone:
“Vitto, take the car to the garage; you have to go around the castle. You will find my driver down there; he’ll be at your service. Soca, bring the bags.”
While climbing the steps, the chatelain continued:
“My dear Saint-Clair, today you will be treated to a late buffet lunch. Normally, we usually have lunch at 12:30 a.m., but my cook Amélie will have the time to prepare a meal worthy of you. I live here with my two daughters and my sister. Her husband—do you remember him? He was killed at Verdun. You will see them before we sit down at the table. They have gone to Saint-Christophe to attend the end-of-year service of a very dear friend.”
He sighed for a few seconds, and, with a voice that was very sad, such that his expressive face showed an infinite weariness, he added:
“I lost my wife two months ago. An illness unknown to the doctors, even the greatest ones brought from Paris. They could understand nothing, nothing… And ever since…”
He stopped then to let out a sort of sob, and with a shiver said:
“Excuse me, I still have a great deal of difficulty overcoming my pain… and my fear, yes! my fear… I will tell you everything, my dear friend… After lunch, we will go out, under the pretext of showing you the park… It’s remarkable, because my great-grandfather and my grandfather applied themselves with intelligence and happy boldness to enrich the number of trees of the most diverse varieties. Some are so exotic they have never been seen before in this region, although they are perfectly acclimatized. Winter doesn’t kill them, for the cold is never very harsh here...”
Saint-Clair didn’t say a word. They entered through the front hall of the castle, an immense space lit by two big windows looking onto a patio that prolonged the steps on each side. In the back, a large staircase led to the upper floors. To the right and left, there were tall double clapper doors. A handsome chandelier in wrought iron, garnished with electric light bulbs, hung from the ceiling. Around the edges of the room, there were wood armchairs upholstered with leather cushions. Several radiators spread throughout filled the space with pleasant warmth.
“It’s really lovely!” said Saint-Clair in sincere admiration.
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“Yes!” said d’Hermont, without false modesty. “This used to be the living-room of the house. There was an enormous fireplace there. I had it replaced by a door that gives direct access to the library, which one can only reach through the front room. But in all other rooms except that one, I left the fireplaces. They still work, and I look after them with care. On gray, rainy, humid days, a wood fire is pleasant, even if we also have heaters... Let’s go to your room now, shall we?”
At that moment, a door opened in the back, to the right of the staircase, and a man appeared in shirtsleeves, a striped vest, black trousers and slippers.
“Firmin!” ordered d’Hermont. “Take some of the bags. We’re going to the Red Room.”
“Yes, Monsieur le Comte.”
And smiling with the evident satisfaction he felt, the chatelain said to Saint-Clair, as they went up the staircase:
“I have three guestrooms. In the one we call the Red Room you will always be attended to, as an honored guest. I know you well enough to be sure it will please you.”
What could have made Jacques d’Hermont send that terrified, almost desperate call? Perhaps I will learn the answer from him today? thought the Nyctalope. But he promised himself to do nothing to provoke the confidences of his friend, who seemed resolved not to do so right away. Saint-Clair thought: It must be one of those secret dramas, which it is important not to force.
The staircase gave onto a wide landing. D’Hermont walked toward a window overlooking the lawn, the access road and the valley. A few steps before reaching it, he stopped to open a door to his left. Crossing the threshold, he said:
“I will walk in front of you, my dear friend, for the room is dark back there. There is no lighting n the Red Room, except for a fanlight with a hanging curtain, which you can draw back and forth at your convenience.”