On the Brink of the World's End Page 16

  “My man, who was in evening dress, appeared to be absorbed in drinking a cocktail, but from time to time, unable to hide his impatience, as if he were waiting for someone, his eyes examined the whole room with a circular glance and then rapidly resumed their dull aspect. In brief he acted, in such a way as not to attract attention, like someone forewarned of danger or obliged by his situation to keep a close watch on their surroundings.

  “Your Charfland—who responds very well, by the way, to the description given by your Sûreté—did not take long to perceive that performance and, without giving any indication of it, keep track of it.

  “That was what I was waiting for; I then gave the agreed signal. My other man, also in evening dress, seemingly slightly tipsy, came into the bar. The first stared at him attentively and then, when the other passed close to him, made the rallying signal of the Invisible Gang. The second stopped momentarily, skillfully feigned the movement of a man recovering his composure, and repeated the famous signal. The two men then approached one another frankly, shook hands and sat down on stools side by side.

  “At the first signal Charfland, I’m sure, shifted in surprise; at the second, he almost started. He remained thoughtful for more than a quarter of an hour, watching, almost without dissimulation, the actions of my two acolytes. Finally, he stood up and went to sit down on a nearby stool. When he arrived, my two policemen drew closer to one another and continued talking in lower voices, clearly showing that they did not want to be overheard by the newcomer. Charfland continued watching them, now looking directly at the one who had arrived first.

  “The comedy was good. Two or three times my man submitted to the inquisitive gaze without appearing to perceive it, and then, at a further attempt, he muttered: ‘What can this fellow want, I wonder?’

  “My second acolyte then turned round to look at our Charfland in his turn, made a slight movement, as if he had recognized someone, and leaned toward his companion’s ear as if he wanted to make him party to his surprise. The latter got up and, passing between his friend and Charfland said in a fashion to be overheard: ‘What do you want? I’m looking in the mirror.’ Then, looking, as he said it toward the mirror situated on the other side of the bar—a movement that Charfland imitated—he executed the rallying sign of the Invisible Band.

  “I was waiting for that moment. Charfland put his body in the position of the sign; his hands began to sketch a movement that might have been that of the sign, but, as if suddenly changing his mind, he didn’t finish it and negligently turned his head away.

  “The policeman muttered an insult then in a low voice, resumed his seat and said to his comrade, in a fashion to be overheard by our man: ‘He’s not one of ours; I don’t like the look of him.’

  “The other immediately replied: ‘Take care; no fuss here.’

  “Then the latter paid for the drinks and almost forcibly drew his companion away. As he left, the latter darted a furious glance at Charfland.

  “Charfland remained absorbed for some time; he seemed very perplexed, but the calm and self-controlled expression that you know soon got the upper hand again. Half an hour later he left in his turn and slowly, as if prey to profound thoughts, made his way home.”

  After that simple narration Max Semper stopped, as if to concentrate his reflections, and then resumed:

  “From all that, Monsieur le Juge, it results that I can’t affirm to you that Charfland is a member of the Invisible Gang, but my hunch as a policeman tells me—and me alone—that he is. It’s indisputable that he recognized the gang’s rallying signal; he sought contact with people who appeared to be in it, and although he didn’t finish the signal—if he had done, I could affirm his affiliation—it’s because he remembered in time that, to his knowledge, none of the gang except for him was in Paris, and that he was being constantly watched by your police. The fear of a trap held back his revelatory gesture.

  “I think you’re absolutely right to follow this trail; it’s the right one. I regret not being able to bring you any proof. With your permission, I’ll consider my mission here concluded. I’ll send you a detailed report of the facts I’ve just brought you.”

  Monsieur de Landré remained thoughtful for a few moments; then he told the policeman about the scene of the confrontation of Charfland and Thérèse Vila and the session of magnetism that had followed it.

  “In that case,” said Max Semper, “my conviction is well-founded. Don’t you have sufficient elements to have Charfland arrested? You know that if the man really is who we think he is, he’ll slip through your fingers one day. If you prevent that, you might be able to assemble enough evidence to confound him.”

  “If Charfland were a French national, Mr. Semper, he’d already be locked up, but he claims to belong to the great nation of the United States. The man is energetic; he’ll be able to combine his voice with that of a top-flight advocate, and our chancellery won’t accept a diplomatic incident if the arrest is only based on what, legally, we can only call the commencements of suspicion.”

  It was the celebrated detective’s turn to reflect, and then make his decision.

  “If Charfland is who we suppose, it’s in the common interests of both our countries to make sure that he can’t do any more harm. What I’ve seen permits me, I think, to smooth out any diplomatic difficulty in advance. I’ll go to see the ambassador immediately; I’ll come back in an hour.”

  The agreed delay was just about to elapse when Max Semper presented himself on Monsieur de Landré’s study again.

  “Monsieur le Juge,” he said, “It’s agreed. The American embassy won’t create any difficulty for you. You know that it wants to punish the Terrick family’s murderer as much as you do. You can ask us for a rogatory commission by way of the usual channels; so long as that doesn’t come to a conclusion, you can keep your fellow locked up, and I promise you that it won’t conclude until your investigation is closed. I’ll do everything possible over there; my renown is at stake, but don’t hope that I’ll be able to find anything capable of helping you; my veritable aid is simply a matter of slowing down the rogatory commission, to give you time. Good luck, then, and au revoir!”

  That same evening Max Semper and his aide left for America, and a special edition of the newspapers announced that Monsieur Charfland, alleged American citizen, had been arrested on suspicion of the murder of A. H. Terrick, his wife, his two children and their governess.

  Six months had already passed since then, and the investigation had made no progress.

  It had been quite impossible to make Charfland say anything other than what he had said in his witness statements; it had been quite impossible to get Thérèse Vila to say anything more under hypnosis, although she still expressed the same repulsion for the principal accused.

  Several times already, the public prosecutor had summoned Monsieur de Landré to tell him that he was out of time; public opinion, massaged by the intelligent and active defender that Charfland had selected, was beginning to lose patience. Disagreeable comments about the slowness and impotence of the law were appearing with increasing frequency in the leading newspapers. The affair was threatening to turn into a scandal and when the Chambres resumed, several interpellations had been tabled for the Garde des Sceaux.

  The American ambassador and Max Semper had kept their promises; no diplomatic action had been taken with regard to the incarceration of the American Charfland, and the rogatory commission sent to America had not yet concluded—but the pretext, now unique, of the commission’s delay, could not stand up any longer. Monsieur de Landré saw the moment coming when he would be obliged to sign a release or have the case taken off him, which was the equivalent of a serious punishment.

  And yet, all his instincts as an honest man and all his experience as a magistrate told him that Charfland was guilty…

  But he still had no proof.

  All of that had passed through Monsieur de Landré’s mind while he held the piece of paper bearing the name Nounlegos,
and time was passing.

  When he pulled himself together and saw that nearly an hour had gone by while he was mulling over the past, he was surprised not to have received the information he had requested from his secretary. Summoned, the latter told him that research carried out in all possible sources had had no result. Nounlegos was unknown.

  He gave the ordered to show the enigmatic visitor in.

  A strange little old man presented himself, his back very curbed, clad in old-fashioned garments. He came forward, not in a timid manner but in a fashion suggesting that he was unaccustomed to taking steps of this kind. His large eyes blinked continually, as if under the effects of fatigue, shielded by large spectacles; his cranium, absolutely bald, was creased by wrinkles.

  He gave an impression of weariness, as if worn out by a difficult material existence and an intense mental life. Thus, Monsieur de Landré was surprised by the freshness and clarity of the bizarre individual’s voice when he declared, without any preamble:

  “Monsieur le Juge, you are charged, are you not, with a curious affair in which the accused, Charfland, whom you believe to be guilty, claims that he is innocent, and against whom you cannot raise any certain proof of guilt. I have come to tell you that I can remove all your doubts.”

  “How can you do that?” asked the magistrate, interrupting involuntarily.

  “I can read minds. I can therefore read Charfland’s, and tell you what he is thinking.”

  Oh! Is he a madman? Monsieur de Landré wondered. Aloud, he said: “Monsieur, before going any further, permit me to ask you a question, with which, in fact, I ought to have begun this conversation. Who are you? Where do you live? What are you occupations, your references? It is only after being enlightened on these points that I can listen to your proposals.”

  The little man had a smile full of delicious irony, so paltry did those preoccupations appear to him by comparison with what he had to offer. Laconically, he replied:

  “My name is Nounlegos. I live at number 17, Rue des Saules, in Bondy. I’m a rentier and I pursue my studies in my private laboratory. Living alone, with no relations, I have no references to cite to you.”

  Then he fell silent, his thin smile seemingly interested by the embarrassment he read in the magistrate’s face.

  The latter replied: “For want of personal references, you can still cite me scientific references, of which you can have no lack if, as you say, your studies have led you to be able to realize the extraordinary proposal you have just made to me.”

  Nounlegos’ smile disappeared, and it was in a grave voice that he replied:

  “I have been working absolutely alone for between thirty and forty years on the problem that I set myself: to read the human mind. I have never made any communication, and my research is unknown to the scientific world. To make it known, I’m waiting for the moment when I have completely solved the vast problem that I’m investigating; that might take me another ten years, perhaps twenty—perhaps I shall never get there. I have, therefore, no reference among official scientists.

  “I have succeeded in being able to decipher the thoughts of a human being obliged to lend himself to the experiment, for it requires a special apparatus. In order to take account for myself, in a genuinely interesting case, of whether my method, such as it is, is susceptible of rendering services, I have come to put my experiment at your disposal to examine Charfland.

  “Take note that in doing that, I am not pursuing any particular advantage; the trial that I shall attempt will only profit the law. It’s said that you’re about to be obliged to sign Charfland’s release; if the man is innocent you’ll be liberated from any future remorse; if he’s guilty, you’ll certainly find, in the man’s thoughts, what you need to gather the evidence that you lack.”

  Monsieur de Landré was understandably embarrassed. Nounlegos’ proposition appeared to him to be so strange that his mind refused to admit its veracity; but on the other hand, he was disposed to clutch at any hope, even chimerical, susceptible of aiding him in the tenebrous affair.

  “Of what does this experiment consist?” he asked.

  “I place a special apparatus on the subject’s head. I examine the mind and note the thoughts traversing it. The apparatus does not inconvenience the examinee in any way.”

  “Where can it be done?”

  “Here, if you desire. I only need a little electric current, which I can take from the socket of one of your desk-lamps. I will add that if the subject does not want to lend himself to the experiment, I can immobilize him painlessly, with current taken from another socket, while leaving cerebral activity intact.”

  “But even if I believe what you’re telling me, how can you be sure that Charfland will think about the crime?”

  “Oh, the mere fact of his presence here before you will oblige his mind to think about the affair. If he orientates it in another direction, it will be sufficient for you to ask him a few questions that will oblige him to return to it. You ought to know better than I do, that a guilty man who pleads innocence, in order not to give himself away in his responses, has to concentrate all his attention on his crime, remembering what he ought to say and what he must hide.”

  “But what proof would I have that what you tell me has really traversed the mind of the accused?”

  “Obviously, I can’t oblige you in advance to have faith in my method, but I can submit you to the proof; you’ll be able to see whether I’m able to read your thoughts.”

  “Indeed,” murmured the magistrate, prodigiously interested. Then an objection occurred to him. “But even with that proof, your method, not being officially recognized, can’t serve as the basis for a legal action; you’re reading won’t be admissible evidence

  “That might be true,” Nounlegos replied, “but it will be up to you, as the examining magistrate, once in possession of the thoughts of the accused, to act in the interests of the law to acquire the proof. If Charfland is guilty, might he not think about the instrument of which he made use to commit his crime and the place where he got rid of it? Then you’ll be able to recover it. Wouldn’t that be a commencement of proof?”

  “That’s true,” Monsieur de Landré could not help saying. Nounlegos’ confidence and clarity were beginning to convince him. He started. “But that examination would have to take place in the presence of the advocate; if he refuses, your science not being recognized, the law won’t permit me to impose it.”

  “For my part,” Nounlegos replied, “I don’t intend to have dealings with anyone but you and Charfland; the moment hasn’t yet come to make my discoveries known You alone will know that I, Nounlegos, have given you a means, but I shall not participate in any way in your future actions, inspired by my reading. The offer I’m making to you is only valid if you promise never to reveal what you have witnessed. As for Charfland, you can easily get him to lend himself to the experiment without involving his advocate. In any case, he’ll never suspect the truth, and if you convict him of his crime, he’ll remain entirely in ignorance of the method that led you to that end.”

  The question was taking on a procedural aspect for the magistrate. He reflected, visibly attracted by the idea of the trial that had been suggested to him.

  “I could tell Charfland that before closing the investigation, I’d like to have him examined by a celebrated phrenologist; I know the man well enough by now to be sure that, convinced of the incompetence of that science...”

  “With good reason,” Nounlegos articulated, curtly.

  “…And, desirous of lending himself without objection to any new investigation that appears devoid of danger, he’ll acquiesce without demanding the collaboration of his advocate. He’s certainly aware of the present situation, in any case, and his defender has promised him a definitive release any day. He’ll think he’s hastening the moment of his liberation by not raising any objection to the examination. Besides which, he’ll reflect that if the examination reveals anything that could weigh against him, I won’t be abl
e to use it because of the absence of his counsel.”

  “It’s not for me to judge those means.” After a pause, Nounlegos went on. “Let’s conclude: firstly you promise not to reveal to anyone the conversation that we’ve just had, not the scene that you’re going to witness?”

  “I promise,” replied Monsieur de Landré.

  “Secondly, I shall be here tomorrow morning at ten o’clock, and your study will be closed throughout the duration of the experiment.”

  “Agreed.”

  And the little old man, picking up his hat, which he had placed on the magistrate’s desk, stood up, nodded his head and left, while Monsieur de Landré, slightly petrified by a decision so rapidly made, remained pensive, wondering, now that the door had closed on the strange Nounlegos, whether he might have been dreaming, or whether he had just been deceived by a skillful trickster.

  II

  The next day, Monsieur de Landré, the examining magistrate, slightly discomfited by a sleepless night, incapable of taking any interest whatsoever in his post, which he was opening mechanically, cast frequent glances at his little desk clock.

  At nine forty-five, his secretary came to tell him that Charfland was there. The accused had not said anything when the secretary had told him that the magistrate had summoned him; he had not mentioned his defender.

  At ten o’clock, the usher, following the orders he had received, opened the door to introduce Nounlegos, without announcing him. The latter, carrying two large valises, seemed even more stooped than the day before.

  “I need a few minutes to prepare, Monsieur le Juge.”

  Then, with a remarkable activity for a man so seemingly worn out, he set to work, accompanying his gestures with various brief explanations.

  He cleared half of the magistrate’s desk. “To make room for my apparatus.”

  He took bizarre utensils out of his valises, placed them on the desk and assembled them carefully.