The Dream Killer of Paris (10 page)

While speaking, Paul de Vallemont had edged towards the doorway and we followed him into the Institut's vast assembly room, reserved for official receptions and conferences. Inside, nearly a hundred and fifty people were sitting on either side of a central aisle. They were listening with rapt attention to a man dressed entirely in black whom I took to be Dr Osty. He was on a kind of stage at the end of the room and had already begun introducing the guest next to him. The latter (apparently the medium) was a small man with a pale face who was outwardly respectable-looking. Sitting on a chair, while Dr Osty was standing, the clairvoyant was examining the audience, visibly impressed.

We had to wrap up the conversation quickly before Monsieur de Vallemont left us entirely.

‘What conclusion did you come to at your committee meeting?' I asked in a low voice.

‘As often happens at the Institut, opinions were divided into two
camps. According to the first, that of the scientists, the Marquis de Brindillac and the poet Pierre Ducros were prey to a hallucination.'

‘What do you mean?'

‘Our colleague, the venerable Antoine de Méricourt, a professor at the Collège de France, quoted the work of a certain Dr Schatzman
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in support of this theory. Schatzman discusses different kinds of hallucinations, particularly nocturnal illusions. Using this research, and other studies to back up his view, Méricourt claims that it is possible for a sleeper to awake suddenly during the night in a state of languor, paralysed, and be the victim, through an uncontrollable surge in cerebral activity, of a series of visual and aural hallucinations which may cause a panicky fear in him.'
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‘And is it possible to die from that?'

‘I don't … Possibly … Probably … An ad hoc committee was created to look into it but it will not present its conclusions for several weeks. Now, gentlemen, I must leave you. As vice-chairman, I must be in the front row. I look forward to seeing you after the meeting … or on another occasion soon.'

‘Monsieur de Vallemont,' I pleaded, touching his sleeve, ‘you haven't told us what the other group thought.'

‘Oh, excuse me! Well, according to the spiritualist camp, the guilty parties should be sought among the Invisible.'

‘The Invisible?'

‘Yes. The Ancients, from whom we have so much to learn, considered dreams to be privileged access to the world of spirits. They had an expression for it: the gates of sleep. Never forget, gentlemen, that the world on to which these gates open is full of formidable shades, bloodthirsty grubs and diabolical lemures. Some of these creatures found a way to besiege the psyche of the Marquis and the poet, and plagued them until death followed. If that theory is true, what an ordeal their last night must have been!'

This time Paul de Vallemont didn't give us time to reply. He inclined his head quickly and then walked down the central aisle and slid discreetly into an empty chair just in front of the platform.

‘Whatever the correct theory,' exclaimed James after a few moments' silence, sounding both alarmed and disappointed, ‘if these people are right, we'll be unemployed, my friend! No more mystery to get our teeth into! And our Austrian cleared of all suspicion! It's puzzling to say the least!'

I admit that I no longer knew what to think myself. I was also starting to feel my lack of sleep cruelly and was suddenly overwhelmed with weariness. I suggested that we sit down and listen to the meeting for a while.

On stage Dr Osty had stopped talking in order to let the medium concentrate. Sitting back in his chair with his eyes closed, he had gone into a trance. There was a noticeable change in his breathing, his eyelids quivered and his hands trembled slightly on his knees. We heard a kind of panting which sounded like a small animal. Then the noise grew fainter before stopping completely. The man began to breathe normally. After a minute, he opened his eyes. In a thin voice he said, ‘I am here. The séance may begin.'

Dr Osty turned to the audience.

‘Ladies and gentlemen, Monsieur Pfizer is now in a light state of hypnosis. Outwardly, there is nothing to see. His mind is as active as when he is awake but, in reality, Monsieur Pfizer now possesses far greater powers of acquiring knowledge than usual. If he is spoken to, he can hold a conversation without difficulty, whatever the subject. At the same time, he is capable of gleaning a fragmented knowledge of very intimate events concerning his interlocutor, knowledge which in normal conditions it would be impossible for Mr Pfizer to obtain through the usual sensory channels.

‘As you will soon realise, Monsieur Pfizer's visions are initially
mainly symbolic. He doesn't perceive the truth clearly and precisely like reading a book or looking at a photograph. No, if he makes a connection with someone from the audience, a flow of mental images suddenly appears in his consciousness and he becomes aware of vague impressions, colours, isolated words, even memories from his own past which run on one after the other like a rebus that he must then decipher.

‘Ladies and gentlemen, you who are seated in this room and do us the honour of participating in this new experiment, I suggest that we begin the séance. Monsieur Pfizer and I will wander among you. Monsieur Pfizer, please rise and follow me! Monsieur Pfizer is going to try to see you.'

The two men left the platform and began their circuit of the room. Dr Osty walked next to the medium who, apart from a rather fixed expression, displayed none of the strange behaviour one might have expected from someone in a state of hypnosis or a trance.

Pfizer stopped in front of a large lady sitting next to the central aisle, dressed in a woollen jacket and a black crepe hat. He closed his eyes and appeared to sink into a state of artificial sleep again but this time it was lighter and did not last as long. Then he opened his eyes and spoke to her.

‘Madame, I suddenly have a feeling of suffocation. It is hot, very hot, as if the temperature in the room has increased greatly. I feel breathless; I almost feel nauseous. I can make out several figures embracing. They look similar, perhaps they are related. I think that it is a gathering of some kind, a reunion. It is still very hot. Do you or someone close to you have an estranged sibling?'

‘Wait a moment,' the medium continued, without giving the woman time to reply. ‘It's not a reunion but the island of Réunion! Do you know someone from the island of Réunion, Madame? Or someone who is coming back from there?'

‘My son!' exclaimed the large lady.

‘Is he returning because he is ill?'

‘Yes.'

‘Is it his heart?'

‘Yes, his heart! He suffers from cardiac insufficiency. He had to come back immediately. He was in charge of a trading post.'

Monsieur Pfizer bowed to the lady, satisfied, and moved away, accompanied by Dr Osty.

‘What is this circus act?' asked my friend, attracting the ire of our neighbours. ‘That lady is obviously in league with the medium.'

Although our shared experience had taught us always to keep an open mind when faced with the fantastic and the supernatural, we also knew very well that psychic research regularly came up against deception and falsification. Since the case of the Empty Circle, during which we had encountered the sadly infamous Sprengler, a sham expert on thought transmission who was able to guess what was in the pockets of members of the audience apparently chosen at random, my colleague was very sceptical of all supposed clairvoyant mediums.

Voices murmured ‘Shh!' and ‘Quiet!' all around us.

As for the medium, he wandered about for a few minutes before stopping in front of a row and meeting the gaze of a severe-looking man.

‘That's strange, I can hear birdsong. Is your name Bird?'

‘No, my name is Sparrow!'

There was loud laughter from the audience and the gentleman seemed very annoyed.

‘Preposterous!' commented my friend sombrely.

‘Shh! Shh!'

Pfizer and Dr Osty began walking again.

This time the clairvoyant was drawn to a young blonde woman.
She seemed very anxious and resisted slightly when Pfizer leant towards her to take her handbag. The medium reassured her with a few well-chosen words and held the bag for several moments, his eyes closed. Then he put it down and began to comment on the visions which were invading his consciousness.

‘This will seem ridiculous to you but I have the feeling that this handbag is suffering. It is unwell. I feel pain in it. Ah! Another thing, I hear a name. Octave. Does the name Octave mean anything to you, Mademoiselle?'

‘That is my fiancé's name,' replied the young woman, confused.

‘Does he work with leather? Or in the clothing industry?'

‘No, he's an engineer.'

‘I don't understand.'

The medium opened his eyes.

‘The pain is increasing and the bag is changing colour. It's not brown any more, it's white, white as a sheet. It is afraid, it's hiding. Is Octave suffering?'

‘He is very ill.'

‘It's strange, I see myself as a child playing near the marshes of Saint-Gond. My mother is telling me, “You must not put water from the marshes in your mouth, it's dirty.” Does Octave work in the marshes?'

‘Yes, he has returned from south-west Baghdad.'

‘Leather! Skin! Octave has caught a skin disease!'

‘He is suffering from very serious lupus,' said the young lady with tears in her eyes. ‘His doctor has put him in quarantine. He fears that there is no cure and that he caught it during work to drain the peat bogs.'

‘Ah! I have an image of a woman in a black apron who keeps gesturing. She is scrubbing, she is scouring, she is polishing, she doesn't stop for a moment. Wait, there is a word: “ménage”. It is
coming through loud and clear. Does it mean anything to you? Ménage?'

‘Ménage? Ménage! Goodness me, no. Oh yes, possibly! I think that Ménage was the maiden name of Octave's mother. Jeanne Ménage. She died two years ago.'

‘Wait a moment! The woman in the black apron has become a child and she too is polishing a handbag. Did Octave's mother suffer from a skin disease?'

‘Not that I know of.'

‘The child is rubbing the bag more vigorously and the leather is losing its colour. Mademoiselle, your fiancé is not suffering from lupus. The marshes have nothing to do with it. It is a severe form of eczema, a hereditary form. His mother had it when she was little. There is no danger, I assure you, my child.'

The young woman could not hold back her tears. The medium shook her warmly by the hand and then moved away, deeply affected himself, wishing her well.

The room, which had remained quiet until then, began to hum with muffled comments and exclamations. A few people started to applaud but Dr Osty raised his hand for silence.

I felt James seething next to me.

‘Let's go,' he said.

‘Very well.'

Pfizer and Osty had reached the back of the room. The medium stopped three rows in front of us. It would have been rude to leave the meeting just then.

Although I did not share James's suspicion, I was finding it difficult to form a definite opinion about what we were witnessing. I knew the reputation of the Institut Métapsychique and Dr Osty was highly regarded. But might this good doctor himself be the dupe of a malicious charlatan?

‘Let's wait until he goes to the other side of the aisle,' I whispered. ‘Then we can leave.'

I assumed that the medium was going to address someone in front of him but he unexpectedly turned to me. I was sitting in the back row outside his field of vision. As soon as his gaze fell on me I became extremely anxious that my most private thoughts, my most secret desires, might be revealed. Monsieur Pfizer's clairvoyance was suddenly very disturbing.

He approached me calmly, closed his eyes and almost immediately opened them again.

‘I hear a distant voice from a place which doesn't seem to be of this world. The face is that of a young, extraordinarily beautiful blonde woman. She is calling you. It is a spirit. No, I don't feel that she is dead. Who is she? Have you ever heard her voice?'

‘No,' I replied uncertainly.

‘She is afraid for you.'

‘I don't know what you're talking about.'

I was not telling the truth, obviously. I was convinced that he was talking about my stranger from the steamer. But how was that possible since all that was only dreams and illusions? Mere figments of the imagination!

‘You surprise me greatly, Monsieur. This voice is very insistent. She is asking you to believe in her. She repeats it most emphatically. Now I see something else. It is a vast landscape. A valley, a wide green valley, and a fast-flowing river running through it. I see paddle steamers and a castle sitting high above, with a pointed roof on one of its towers.'

There was no doubt about it. His vision was the landscape of
fata
Morgana
which had appeared in the Channel between Dover and Calais. What was I to make of it?

‘The young lady is even further away. I can hear her saying
something. It's not very clear. “Good night Vienna!” Yes, I think that's it: “Good night Vienna!” Her voice is fading. She's disappearing into the night. Does that mean anything to you?'

‘Good night Vienna,' I repeated, increasingly rattled. ‘No, it doesn't mean anything to me.'

‘There is also a train. It is travelling fast. Do you see a connection?'

‘A train? For Paris? London?'

‘No, it's heading east. A train you must not miss. Now I can hear the ticking of a clock. Wait! It's striking. It's evening. Hold on, I can hear eight strokes. But the face is only showing seven minutes to eight. That's strange. The mechanism must be broken. Seven minutes to eight! Does that time mean anything?'

‘No,' I replied.

‘Truly nothing?'