The Dream Killer of Paris (17 page)

‘
Polizei! Polizei! Überall um die Burg!’

‘Polizei? Was erzählst du denn da?
’

The police! They had surrounded the castle! So good old Fourier had got my message and hurried to find us.

Franz took the doctor by the shoulder and, after ordering the other two to stay where they were, ushered him towards the stairs. Clearly, he wanted to judge the situation for himself before warning his boss and risking interrupting the rite.

After they had disappeared Georg and Josef wavered slightly. They didn’t know what to do now and only one (the one with the pockmarked skin) continued to point his pistol in our direction.

That was the moment my friend chose to act. He suddenly rushed at them. Unable to avoid his charge, they fell backwards and tumbled down the stairs with a terrible crash. While he recovered his pistol from the belt of one of the crooks, James shouted at me to take care of Bernhard.

Take care of Bernhard! And how was I supposed to do that? The man, who was three times my size, had not been slow to react. Luckily, flexibility was not his strong point. As he went to grab me by the throat, I rolled between his legs and hit the table.

I grabbed the lamp and the metal key in one move and hurried into the bedroom where my friend joined me after giving Bernhard a fatal blow to the head. I locked the door behind him.

Kessling turned round as we entered, his eyes full of violence and
rage. He took up his position again in front of the pentagram and fixed his attention on the four-poster bed where the young woman, unclothed, lay sleeping.

‘There’s no more an infernal creature in here than at Piccadilly Circus at midday!’ mocked James.

‘Be quiet, you imbecile!’ thundered Kessling without shifting his gaze from the sleeping woman. ‘We can’t see it, that’s all. But the spirit is here, moving around above her. And I can confirm that the bride is to his taste!’

James seized the oil lamp I was holding and moved towards the bed. Kessling grabbed my friend by the arm and forced him back.

‘I order you not to enter the area beyond the sacred star. It alone protects us from demons and their unpredictable reactions.’

My friend stopped immediately.

‘The spirit cannot do anything to us, James! He can only act through sleep. We have nothing to fear.’

‘Here he is!’ cried Kessling. ‘The holy union is finally going to begin! A second master will be born from this magical night!’

On the bed the young woman appeared to be having a convulsion. Her eyelids fluttered slightly and her body began to jolt. At first it looked like the jerky movements I had noticed in my friend but, very quickly, her spasms took on a worrying intensity. Her stomach was crushed under the weight of something that could not be seen. She was moaning terribly and writhing ever more violently.

Ignoring the Austrian’s advice, James placed the lamp at the foot of the four-poster and rushed towards the sleeping woman. I did likewise, making my way to the other side of the bed.

After a few moments’ hesitation, Kessling crossed the line that he himself had fixed and hurried towards us.

‘Stop, you ignoramuses! What are you doing?’

James shoved him back, sending him reeling to the other side of the room.

Then, as we had done for André Breton in his studio, we used all our energy to try to rouse the woman from her sleep and bring her back to consciousness. But this time a colossal force appeared to be opposing us and held her firmly in a trance-like state.

‘Let that woman go or it will cost you your life!’

Kessling had risen and was getting ready to throw himself at us again but in his hurry he knocked over the lamp that was on the floor. The glass broke and the oil spread to the sheets of the
four-poster
which caught fire.

This accident was a godsend for us. The flames seemed to have an immediate effect on our invisible adversary because, in an instant, it became evident that the sleeping woman had been delivered from the dream which had possessed her. Responding to our calls, she opened her eyes. Her lips moved in an effort to speak but the poor woman was in a state of shock.

James tore down part of the bed canopy and used it to cover her nakedness. Then he lifted the young woman up just before the fire, growing more intense by the second, reached the mattress.

‘What should we do with him?’ I asked, pointing to Kessling, who was lying on the floor, uttering a crazy litany of hate-filled imprecations.

‘Leave him to his miserable fate!’

The flames were now licking at the wooden beams. In a few moments they would reach the roof. We had to get out of this part of the
Burg
as quickly as possible. I opened the door with the key and turned it twice in the keyhole behind me.

James was right. The villain was going to get what he deserved.

We stepped over Bernhard’s body and the twisted limbs of Georg and Josef on the stairs and then ran as quickly as we could. In my friend’s arms the young woman was struggling to regain consciousness.

When we reached a landing we heard sharp cries coming from the room below. James pointed to a door.

‘That leads to the first floor of the central building, above the cells. I think we should go that way to reach the square tower. Franz and the doctor don’t seem to be able to agree on what to do. Let’s try and avoid them!’

I pushed open the door and we ran down a long shadowy corridor. As we left the marital bedroom, I had automatically picked up Bernhard’s candle. I therefore led the way, holding the candlestick out in front of me.

At the end of the corridor another door led to a relatively spacious room which was lit by an overhead electric light. On the table was a full medical kit, including some items which had been displaced (syringes, percussion hammer, stethoscope, height gauge, scales). Above, the shelves were filled with pillboxes and glass bottles.

James put the woman down in an armchair. Her face was dreadfully pale.

From the open window we could see the hill and the grey roofs of the nearest houses in Strelka shining in the bright night.

Below, about fifty police officers in uniform, armed to the teeth, were massed in front of the castle.

On the steps, I recognised the tweed suit and bowler hat of Superintendent Fourier. Three men were at his side: Jacques Lacroix was one and Raymond Dupuytren another. I could not identify the last.

Nearby, a fellow in a trench coat was positioning his men. On the path, villagers had gathered behind a row of policemen, alerted by the flames.

I leant out of the window and shouted to the superintendent, waving my arms.

‘Singleton! Thank heavens! You’re safe!’ he cried jubilantly when he saw me.

‘Yes, Superintendent! Fire broke out at the back of the castle. There are only two who are still a threat. The others can’t do us any harm. A woman is being held prisoner in one of the cells. We have another young lady with us who needs help. And there’s a baby too! Come quickly!’

‘A what?’

The man in the trench coat gave the order to go in. A battering ram struck the wicket gate of the square tower and another broke down the entrance to the courtyard. As soon as the first police officers entered the
Burg
, shots rang out but the exchange of fire only lasted five minutes. Suddenly, it stopped and we heard steps on the stairs.

A door opened. Fourier, Lacroix and Dupuytren burst in to congratulate us. Behind them, I recognised the pretty face of Mademoiselle de Brindillac, her head covered by a shawl.

Amélie, the perfect Samaritan, moved towards the young woman we had just rescued from the realm of sleep and, taking her grey woollen coat from her shoulders, she helped the young woman to put it on.

The man in the trench coat appeared in the doorway. An imperial moustache spread like the wings of a parrot under his long red nose.

‘Singleton! Trelawney! Let me introduce Baron Sedlinsky, Vienna’s chief of police. It is thanks to the Baron that so many of us were able to get here.’

‘Thank you, Baron! My word,’ I continued, addressing the superintendent, ‘you didn’t waste any time, did you? Did the French government dip into public funds to charter a special plane?’

‘You are not far from the truth, my friend. The Interior Minister authorised the use of one of his planes. We took off from Le Bourget airport at sunrise and at one o’clock in the afternoon we were in Vienna. The receptionist at the Regina told me where you had gone:
W— Castle. Unfortunately, it took us time to find a car to get here. But, by the way, can someone tell me what’s happened to Öberlin?’

‘Kessling,’ James corrected. ‘That’s his latest identity. He is locked in the south-west tower. Unarmed and harmless. When we left, the flames of hell were about to roast him.’

An Austrian inspector entered the room and exchanged a few words with Baron Sedlinsky.

‘Gentlemen! The fire is spreading!’ Vienna’s chief of police declared in French. ‘We cannot stop it. We must leave immediately.’ ‘Good heavens! The baby!’ I cried. ‘We must find it and quickly.’

‘What is all this about a —’

‘Listen!’ said Amélie.

We all listened but could only hear the commotion on the ground floor.

‘Listen’ she repeated. ‘It’s like someone moaning.’

Indeed, we could make out a kind of vague sigh, a far-off breathing and slight hissing which seemed to be coming from behind a curtain.

‘That’s him. That’s the baby,’ I cried, rushing behind the table.

Pulling aside the velvet curtain, I discovered a narrow room where a dozen cradles were lined up. It was a nursery, rudimentary and lacking basic modern comforts but adequate no doubt for babies possessed of exceptional life force.

I approached one of the beds. Inside, a baby was sleeping.

The others came forward cautiously. At my side, Amélie let out a gasp of surprise.

‘My goodness, it’s true! Poor little thing.’

She picked up the newborn baby who opened his blue-green eyes and gazed at her.

A few minutes later, before the sun came up, we were walking along the path which would take us away from W— Castle for ever,
leaving behind us the sad spectacle of flames engulfing the roof of the central building.

For us the case was finally closed. Johannes Kessling had perished in the castle fire and an explanation for the murders of the various sleep specialists over the last few months had been found, incredible as it was.

In the car back to Vienna, I told Superintendent Fourier about the latest turn of events, not forgetting the presumed supernatural origins of the newborn child. What were we supposed to think of that infant now in Amélie’s care in the car behind us? Would he really develop mythical powers? Was that not just the delirious fantasy of Herr Professor? What proof did we have that he was not the offspring of two completely ordinary human beings?

Moreover, we had no witnesses to reveal the identity of his father. The mother had been found lying in her cell, having bled to death. As for Franz and the doctor, they had seen the game was up and thrown themselves in front of the police bullets.

My stories of supernatural unions left Superintendent Fourier sceptical to say the least. I did manage to persuade him though that it would not be prudent to entrust the infant to the Austrian regime. The best thing would be to place him under the protection of the French state so that doctors could follow his development day by day and assess his real faculties as soon as possible.

When we reached the capital Fourier negotiated with Baron Sedlinsky in order to obtain his authorisation to take the newborn baby with us, which he managed to do without too much difficulty. It goes without saying that Vienna’s chief of police had been told the bare minimum about Kessling’s odious plan and that no mention was made of the possible nature of the baby.

In the early afternoon I made a detour to the Regina
17
to pick up my bag. An hour later Fourier, Lacroix, Mademoiselle de Brindillac, Dupuytren, James and I took our seats with the baby on board the plane chartered by the Interior Minister. During the flight Amélie and Jacques suggested giving the baby a name so the boy was christened Auguste, in memory of the Marquis whose funeral had been held on Sunday at Étampes cemetery.

In the evening, the Blériot landed at Le Bourget airport and, as midnight struck, I returned to my room at the Hôtel Saint-Merri which I had left three days previously in great haste.

Although I was exhausted from my journey, I only managed to doze off as the sun began to rise. For the last few days I had been living in a kind of waking dream. The line between my real life and my dream life had become increasingly blurred. Now the time had come for me to return to a more solid, tangible existence. Already, the gates of sleep had closed for ever. Perhaps in a few weeks’ time I would wonder if I had imagined the whole thing?

When I awoke I had to accept that my stranger from the steamer had not visited me. I had so wanted to see her one last time! She was the one who had helped me to see the light in this investigation. She was the one, above all, to whom I owed my life.

She didn’t visit me that night or the following night or any other night. So what was I to think? Hadn’t Kessling himself stressed the inconstant and unpredictable nature of elemental entities? I had been chosen by her to foil a wicked plan which threatened the balance between the worlds. With that mission now fulfilled, had my stranger turned away from me?

The mystery remained but that did not stop me recording my dreams. In fact, it was my dream diary which led to my success in the difficult Brussels Vampire case.

Of course, every time I have looked back on what happened in Paris (and even now as I write these words), I have had to admit
that a tiny part of me, the conservative, logical and rational part, has always maintained that the stranger from the steamer was a product of my imagination, a creature I had invented in my over active subconsciousness. However, deep down I know that the truth is otherwise. The events recorded here are proof enough of that.

My investigation into the death of Nerval had not moved forward. Nonetheless, James and I agreed to take the train to London on Thursday after a well-deserved day of rest wandering through the City of Light.

At twenty minutes to midday on 25 October 1934 a taxi delivered us to the Gare du Nord. At the end of the platform, in front of the
Flèche d’Or
, Superintendent Fourier, Lacroix and Mademoiselle de Brindillac were waiting with happy smiles to bid us farewell.

Fourier took the opportunity to pass on the President’s official thanks; Jacques and Amélie announced the date of their wedding.

After many warm words, the whistle blew. As I mounted the step of the carriage, Lacroix held out a leather case.

‘What’s this?’

‘Do you remember that conversation we had on Friday in the hotel lobby about the death of Gérard de Nerval?’

‘Of course! You tried to bamboozle me with a story of a strange character at the top of Tour Saint-Jacques who was supposed to have been part of the investigation in 1855.’

‘It wasn’t a hoax, trust me! I told you that the man had given me a document and that if we were successful in our case I would show it to you. Well, here it is!’
¹⁷

‘Oh, but …’

‘I offer it to you as a gift. You are without doubt the person best qualified to recognise its true significance. I will only add one thing: you have never read anything like it!’

‘Ha! That is exactly what our friend the superintendent said to
convince me to help him in the Deadly Sleep case. I hope this won’t launch me into a similar adventure.’

‘You’ll see! Goodbye, gentlemen! Amélie and I wish you an excellent trip! And don’t forget that we are counting on your presence at our wedding!’

For now I will say nothing of the content of that mysterious manuscript. All I can say is that Lacroix had not been exaggerating and its value is indeed incalculable
18
.

The train left at midday exactly and at twenty-five past three our steamer set sail from the port of Calais on an unseasonably balmy day for the end of October.

We didn’t have the opportunity to return to the beautiful country of France until the end of 1935 as the curious outcome of the case of the Gargoyle with Eyes of Blood prevented us from attending our friends’ marriage. However, we stayed in touch with them, as we did with dear Breton and I pride myself on the part I played in promoting his work in England and the United States. A few months after this case, an informal Surrealist group was even set up in London, to the great pride of the French writer and his followers.

As for baby Auguste, he is a young man now, and my word, he’s a strapping lad. We regularly have news of him via Chief Superintendent Fourier and Lacroix who now runs the newspaper
L’Épopée
. He demonstrates surprising intellectual ability for his age and his teachers predict that he will be admitted to the prestigious Academy of Sciences or Medicine. Of course, people will say that this precocity proves nothing about the alleged wonder of his birth – unless all the members of those venerable bodies are of immaterial parentage. But let’s wait a few years. There may be more surprises to come!

Finally, I must conclude on a more worrying note.

On the morning of Saturday 3 November 1934, a little over a
week after our return from France, we received a telegram from the Sûreté Nationale which threw us into turmoil. Superintendent Fourier informed us that Baron Sedlinsky’s men had gone through the rubble of W— Castle and had discovered the charred bodies of Georg, Josef and Bernhard but had found no trace of a fourth body, either in the infamous tower bedroom or anywhere else in the
Burg
.

So what had become of Johannes Kessling? Had the monster managed to escape? A conjuring trick? Black magic? Joint efforts by the Sûreté Nationale and the Vienna police to dig up information on this shady character’s past also proved fruitless. Kessling seemed to have landed on earth as mysteriously as he had disappeared off the face of it.

A few months later, we were informed by an agent of the British secret services that a castle in the forest of Teutberg, near Paderborn in Westphalia – Wewelsburg – had been taken over under personal orders from Hitler and turned into ceremonial headquarters for the SS, a magical stronghold for the famous Black Order, the regime’s parallel army. By amazing coincidence, the establishment of Wewelsburg more or less tallied with the date of Johannes Kessling’s disappearance from W— Castle.

In truth, all the indications are that Johannes Kessling did not die on 23 October 1934 on the banks of the Danube and that he and the SS-Obersturmbannführer Otto Walther von Küchlin, pursued by James and me in the winter of 1944, were one and the same person. Having given up on the idea of a battery farm for the master race, he had thrown himself into a new and terrifying enterprise.

But that is another unlikely story for another day.

A.S., 29 July