Tales of the Shadowmen 1: The Modern Babylon Read online

  Volume 1: The Modern Babylon

  edited by

  Jean-Marc & Randy Lofficier

  stories by

  Matthew Baugh, Bill Cunningham, Terrance Dicks,

  Win Scott Eckert, Viviane Etrivert, G.L. Gick, Rick Lai,

  Alain le Bussy, Jean-Marc & Randy Lofficier,

  Samuel T. Payne, John Peel, Chris Roberson,

  Robert Sheckley and Brian Stableford

  A Black Coat Press Book

  Table of Contents

  Introduction 4

  Matthew Baugh: Mask of the Monster 8

  Bill Cunningham: Cadavres Exquis 48

  Terrance Dicks: When Lemmy Met Jules 71

  Win Scott Eckert: The Vanishing Devil 76

  Viviane Etrivert: The Three Jewish Horsemen 97

  G.L. Gick: The Werewolf of Rutherford Grange 107

  Rick Lai: The Last Vendetta 152

  Alain le Bussy: The Sainte-Geneviève Caper 175

  Jean-Marc and Randy Lofficier: Journey to the Center of Chaos 182

  Samuel T. Payne: Lacunal Visions 208

  John Peel: The Kind-Hearted Torturer 223

  Chris Roberson: Penumbra 248

  Robert Sheckley: The Paris-Ganymede Clock 268

  Brian Stableford: The Titan Unwrecked; or, Futility Revisited 282

  Credits 341

  Introduction

  It almost scared me to death.

  I didn’t dare get up in the middle of the night to cross the long, deserted corridor of our house and go to the bathroom, because I knew that it lurked behind me, ready to strike at any time.

  It was, of course, Belphegor, the Phantom of the Louvre.

  I was 11 at the time and French television had just broadcast in primetime a four-part black & white series featuring the gaunt, silent, eerie, murderous masked figure of Juliette Greco haunting the Louvre, seeking an alchemist’s treasure.

  But it wasn’t just the Louvre. I had never been to the Louvre, and after watching the first episode of the series, I swore to never set foot inside, ever (another broken promise; so it goes). In episode 3, however, a character woke up in her own bedroom in the middle of the night and saw Belphegor standing there, looming threateningly, at the foot of her bed. Much screaming ensued. The way I figured it, if Belphegor could enter anyone’s bedroom and loom over them while they slept, then pretty much all hope was lost. After that, I slept under the blankets because, as everyone knows, blankets are the ultimate protection against monsters.

  Belphegor was scary.

  (As I don’t want the readers to think that my 11-year-old self would be scared by just another sock puppet monster or cheesy makeup effect, I offer on the next page as evidence, a photograph of Belphegor. Scary, huh?)

  But Belphegor was also entrancing, fascinating, alluring, enthralling; he was the Snake in the Garden of Eden enticing you to taste the Forbidden Fruit, the Naughty Usher that draws you inside the Palace of Sin with a knowing wink and a beckoning index flip…

  Belphegor was the Gate-Keeper. And the realm that he guarded was that of popular literature.

  The 1960s were a bountiful decade for an adolescent eager to delve into the world of Pulp; numerous paperback imprints competed to offer a variety of classics. The point I wish to emphasize here, however, is that the French works cohabited, in the same collections, with the English and American works.

  Belgian publisher Marabout published Rocambole, The Black Coats, the novels of Paul Féval and Alexandre Dumas next to Baroness Orczy’s Scarlet Pimpernel. Their YA imprint featured Bob Morane and Nick Jordan next to Doc Savage.

  In France, Le Livre de Poche’s detective imprint published all the classics: Sherlock Holmes and Arsène Lupin, Rouletabille and The Saint, Fantômas and Hercule Poirot, Lecoq and Nero Wolfe. Plon offered both the adventures of James Bond and S.A.S. Georges Simenon’s Maigret was only a book cover away from the P.I.s of Raymond Chandler and Dashiell Hammett at the Presses de la Cité. Editions Fleuve Noir, whose prodigious output was split between various genre imprints, published all-new Frankenstein novels (it was later disclosed that they had been penned by renowned screenwriter Jean-Claude Carrière under a house name) next to the adventures of the deadly Madame Atomos and futuristic police inspector Robin Muscat.

  In the movie theaters, Fantômas and Judex returned to the silver screens, and Johnny Weissmuller’s Tarzan shared the television screen with reruns of Louis Feuillade’s serial Les Vampires and the adaptations of Belphegor and Les Compagnons de Baal.

  In short, original French works and translations of English and American works cohabited happily under one single rooftop, for the enjoyment of all.

  During the 1970s, when I first became aware of Philip José Farmer’s prodigious fictional biographies of Tarzan and Doc Savage, I was immediately thrilled to enrich my knowledge of the formidable heritage of English-language pulp fiction. But I was also immensely saddened to discover that, with the exceptions of Lupin and Lecoq, none of my favorite heroes were otherwise included. No Rocambole, no Black Coats, no Rouletabille, no Bob Morane, etc. This was like missing an arm or an eye. The Wold Newton universe of families (to reuse Farmer’s terminology) could not possibly be complete since half of its substantial essence was missing!

  Of course, I understand that the language barrier, the lack of adequate translations and simply, the time it takes to become acquainted with a variety of source materials–often, let’s be honest, of variable literary quality–made it impossible for even someone with Farmer’s encyclopedic knowledge to expand into non-English-language areas. But then and there, I resolved to someday share both my enthusiasm and experience with my fellow devotees from across the seas. It is something that I eventually set out to do with our website www.coolfrenchcomics.com, which later grew into two books, Shadowmen and Shadowmen 2.

  And this anthology, Tales of the Shadowmen, hopefully the first in a series of yearly volumes.

  Tales of the Shadowmen finally accomplishes what I dreamed of since I was 11: Judex does share the limelight with the Shadow (thanks to Chris Roberson); Dracula does traverse the Atlantic on the same ship as the Ténèbre Brothers (according to Brian Stableford); Chevalier Dupin does team up with the Count of Monte-Cristo to fight the Black Coats (if John Peel is right); Maigret does cross paths with the Frankenstein Monster (reveals Matthew Baugh); and more.

  Some of the folks published here are members of the New Wold Newton Meteoritic Society, newcomers to genre fiction; others are confirmed writers, American, British and French, whose credits are many and prestigious; all share one thing in common: their love for the classic pulp heroes and villains, the great mythology of the 19th, 20th and now, 21st century.

  For Tales of the Shadowmen is not simply a collection of stories; it is the description of a meta-reality that exists in our collective minds: Sherlock Holmes and Arsène Lupin, like Robin Hood and d’Artagnan and, before them, Hercules and Jason, belong to all of us. They are the stuff myths are made of. They are the myths.

  Further, Tales of the Shadowmen is not simply a collection of Anglo-Saxon myths, but it reaches across the Atlantic, across the Channel, and in an unprecedented feat of literary Entente Cordiale, embraces its French counterparts and creates an even bigger mythology.

  On the other hand, it also is a whole bunch of wonderful stories.

  Now, you must excuse me: I need to look for a blanket.

  Belphegor is back.

  Jean-Marc Lofficier

  Matthew Baugh takes us to the golden age that just preceded World War I. The streets of Paris are abloom, the sweet smell of flowers is in the air. No one ye
t has an inkling of the massive slaughter looming just over the horizon. Justice is simple and Science is wonderful–or are they? Already, cracks are beginning to appear in the social edifice…

  Matthew Baugh: Mask of the Monster

  Paris, 1912, Early Summer

  In all of Paris, perhaps the last place you would expect to hear a woman screaming at 3 a.m. is in the fashionable quarter of Auteuil.

  The screams came from the upper floor of an isolated home on the west side. They were loud enough that some of the closest neighbors could hear them, but they stopped so quickly that no one assigned much importance to them. Not until the following morning.

  After the screams stopped, the lights began to come on in the house. A second story window burst open and a large man in dark clothing stepped out. He carried a bundle wrapped in bed sheets across his shoulder. The bundle was the size of a human body.

  Inside the residence, there was commotion. The master of the house was awake and shouting the name “Louise” over and over. The servants were stumbling out of their quarters, looking frightened or confused.

  The large man paused a moment and a trace of a smile crossed his scarred face. He stepped over the rail and dropped to the ground. There was something ungainly about the man, an oddness about his movements that suggested deformity. Despite this, he moved quickly to the garden wall. It was ten feet high and topped with iron spikes but the giant clambered across it in seconds.

  There was a soft grunt from the bundle as the man landed outside the fence. The ugly smile crossed his face again, and then he jogged off into the darkness.

  Half-a-mile distant, a milk wagon was making its morning rounds. The driver was a heavyset man with a hard face and white hair. A lean youth sat on the cart with him. An observer would have guessed they were father and son, or master and apprentice, out on their morning route. The two were silent as their mule pulled the wagon along. The older man smoked a pipe, the younger a cigarette. Neither had heard the woman’s screams or the distant commotion.

  There was a movement from the brush at the size of the road. The large man stepped out in front of the wagon. The driver tugged on the reins forcing the mule to stop. The younger man tossed his cigarette to the pavement and hopped down. He moved to the back of the wagon. The big man followed him. The youth was tall but the giant topped him by more than a foot.

  The youth opened the back of the wagon, there were cases of milk bottles, but the compartment was far from full. The giant placed his bundle into the opening, then eased his bulk in beside it. The youth shut the door and headed back to his seat by the driver.

  “Let’s go.”

  The driver grunted and flipped the reins. The mule moved forward, falling into that steady rhythm that all mules seem to have.

  “I don’t like this much.”

  The younger man grinned at his companion’s words. He took out a fresh cigarette and lighted it.

  “What don’t you like? The boss’s plan is running beautifully.”

  “You know who we’ve got. The police will be crawling the streets within the hour. If they stop us, there’s nothing to keep them from finding her.”

  The young man sniggered.

  “I pity the gendarme who does stop us. You’ve seen what our friend can do.”

  The older man grunted. The wagon continued in silence.

  “What’s that up ahead?” The driver asked suddenly.

  The young man squinted into the pre-dawn darkness. Ahead there was a silhouette of someone standing in the middle of the road.

  “You think it’s a cop?”

  “Quiet!” The older man snapped. “Whoever it is, he doesn’t need to hear anything.”

  As they drew closer, they could see that the man wasn’t wearing a police uniform. He was tall, with a stony visage mostly hidden by shadows and a black slouch hat. He wore dark clothes under a long cape; the kind gentlemen wore to the opera. As they drew near, the man raised his hand for them to stop.

  The driver reined the mule in.

  “Good morning, sir.”

  “Open the back of your wagon.”

  “Is this a robbery?” The driver asked. He tried to make his tone light but only partially succeeded. “You won’t get much I’m afraid. We have only milk.”

  “You have something much more valuable than that,” the stranger said. “I want the girl.”

  The driver swallowed and glanced at his companion. The youth’s hand slipped to the small of his back where he kept his knives.

  “I don’t know what you mean, sir. It’s just me and young Gaspard.” The driver forced a chuckle. “If you’re looking for a girl at this hour, you’re in the wrong part of town.”

  As the driver spoke, Gaspard worked a finely balanced throwing knife out of his belt. At 19, the youth was already an accomplished knife fighter.

  “If you’d really like to find some nice girls...”

  The driver stopped in mid-sentence as Gaspard threw his knife. It happened so smoothly and quickly that the driver could barely catch the motion.

  The man in black shifted his body and the knife shot past him.

  “I am here for the girl that you took from the Leonard house.”

  With a cry of anger, Gaspard leapt to the ground, another knife already in his hand. The driver moved to join him more slowly. He held a heavy wooden cudgel. They advanced on the black-clad man from opposite sides.

  Gaspard struck first, thrusting at the stranger’s ribs. The man slipped out of the way and caught Gaspard’s wrist with one hand. A quick twist and bones broke. The dark man threw the youth away from him casually as the knife went spinning off.

  The driver rushed in with a slashing blow. The man dodged the blow and brought his foot up in a savate kick. His toe caught the older man in the elbow. The club fell to the ground as his arm went numb. The stranger followed up with a neat punch to the point of the chin that left the driver stretched out on the cobblestones.

  Gaspard had managed to sit up and was cradling his broken wrist.

  “Gouroull!” he screamed, “Help us Gouroull! The devil’s come for us!”

  The man in black moved toward the youth. Before he reached him, the back of the wagon burst open and the big man stepped out.

  Big was a sorry word for it, the stranger realized. Gouroull was well over seven feet tall.

  The giant surged forward with a suddenness that would have done a bantamweight boxer proud. Only the dark man’s quick reflexes allowed him to duck past the huge arms. The man’s fists shot out, landing a powerful combination of punches against Gouroull’s kidneys.

  Gouroull showed no signs that he had even felt the blows. He spun and caught the stranger’s neck in his massive hands, bearing him to the ground.

  The man in black was pinned. His throat crushed by the inhuman strength in those hands. He tried several jujitsu holds, and struck at the pressure points on Gouroull’s wrists. There was no effect.

  In desperation, he reached into the folds of his cloak and produced a small revolver. He pressed the barrel into the giant’s massive chest and fired four shots.

  Gouroull screamed in pain and staggered backwards. He clutched at his bleeding chest, but he didn’t fall. He looked around for a weapon and spied a rock, as big as a horse’s head half-buried in the ground at the side of the road. With one motion, he tore it loose and raised it above his head to crush his foe.

  The man in black was gone.

  “He slipped into the trees.” Gaspard nodded in the direction the stranger had taken. Gouroull started to move in pursuit but the youth raised his good hand.

  “No! We’ve got to get out of here. That was enough noise to bring the police.”

  Gouroull glared at the youth for a long moment, then nodded his massive head. He picked up the young man and placed him in the driver’s seat, then stuffed the unconscious body of the driver into the back of the wagon and climbed in himself.

  With the steady rhythm of the mule’s steps, the wagon moved
on into the dark.

  Nearby, the man in black watched from his hiding place. His throat throbbed with pain and his breathing was ragged. He wanted to follow but it had taken all his strength to get away from the monster. Silently, he swore that the kidnappers would see him again, and soon.

  Etienne Leonard was storming around his garden when the detectives arrived. He was a fierce-looking man of 50 with white hair and a pointed beard. His dark eyes blazed with emotion but his face was calm. A quarter of a century as a juge d’instruction had given him a grim dignity that even this crisis couldn’t erase.

  “Sir! We came as quickly as we could.”

  Leonard nodded to Inspector Gauthier as he entered. The anger in his eyes flared when he saw that the inspector had brought his protégé, Jules Maigret, along.

  “They left a note.” Leonard said, and handed a piece of paper to the detective. Gauthier read it while the taller Maigret read over his shoulder.

  M. Leonard,

  We have taken your daughter. She has not been harmed, but if you wish to see her safely again, you must raise a quarter of a million francs by tomorrow evening. We will contact you to let you know where and how the exchange will be made. If you value her life, you will cooperate!

  “My God.” Maigret whispered, “My poor Louise.”

  “Your Louise?” The anger in Leonard’s eyes was frightening. “She is my daughter, young man! How dare you say such a thing? You are no part of her life. You are only here because you happen to be a policeman!”

  Maigret flushed, but he managed to keep most of the emotion out of his voice.

  “Forgive me, Monsieur le Juge. You are right of course. We will do everything possible to recover your daughter safely.”

  Maigret’s face had settled back into its usual impenetrable expression. Leonard knew that look well, and hated it. He could see no refinement in that broad face, no hint of passion or gleam of intelligence.