‘Aha!’ I hear you cry in the echo-chamber of my imagination, 'what is this lavishly illustrated confection of literary loveliness that has suddenly appeared in my extendedly-metaphorical chocolate box of a Gindylow Blog? Could it be the arrival of the fabled Forever Pilot, of whom we have heard so little but have enjoyed the rather dynamic illustration of (on the right) these past few weeks?'
'Aha!' I reply, 'it is indeed, but oh how I wish you'd use shorter words!'Mr Robert Loring has been busy the past few weeks, adapting his premiere Pilot story from his no-selling magazine, the enigmatically entitled 'Tales of the Forever Pilot', producing a version exclusive to these electronic pages.
He tells me, that he has also prepared an extensive essay on the Pilot and his world, but I shall save that for a later date so that the mystery of the Pilot can sweep you up (hopefully), before you get too bogged down in that whole 'origin of the fanbase minutia' kick.
So, prepare yourself for high-octane thrills and spills in the skies of a parallel universe where time has stood still in the late Victorian era;prepare yourself also for some cerebral detective work down on the - not so much mean as slightly surly - cobbled streets of a mythical French City known amongst it's natives as the 'City of Shadows'. Part one of The Pilot in the City of Shadows is here, the rest will follow soon - episodically.
Monsieur T. T.
proprietor.
The Forever Pilot had seemed to be everywhere at once, hanging in the skies of
THE PILOT IN THE CITY OF SHADOWS
By Robert Loring
I.
Darkness had been banished from the city of shadows. Or at least the happy citizens of Ombreville might be forgiven for thinking so, as they drifted unhurriedly through the hot evening streets. Who could really blame them? Those same streets were crowded with laughing couples, who coatless, straw-hatted, in blouses or white cotton shirts; sauntered up and down as music shone out like light and light drifted like music through open doors and windows; and above them, the sky was filled with the lights of a thousand jet-cars, traffic-blimps and airships.
Yet in spite of the waves of light and the confidence of the people, there were still shadows lurking on the margins of the city. Sometimes these shadows walked hand in hand with the poor and the disposed; but even at the very heart of the light, certain shadows could still be found.
For instance, the brightest object in the city that night was clearly the Metropole, Ombreville’s finest hotel. It stood at the centre of a large intersection of well-lit streets; a vast chandelier of light suspended by a series of pearl and gold strands. But up on the Metropole’s roof, unseen by the crowds, a shadow moved and carefully felt its way through the darkness.
The shadow detached itself from a wall and crept towards another deeper patch of shadow. It moved as stealthily as a cat and was careful to avoid the rows of skylights that dotted the roof. But even though its movements were sinuous and quick, the shadow was heavily burdened; over one of its indistinct shoulders, a large and equally indistinct bundle drooped.
A few moments later the shadow carefully put the bundle down and laughed a ragged, nervous-sounding laugh. The glow of a skylight fell on the bundle revealing the body of an unconscious young woman in evening-dress.
The shadow bent over the slender girl and carefully began to arrange her so that her throat was exposed. Then just as carefully, he drew something hard and sharp from a concealed pocket.
Now a scalpel hung suspended over the girl’s naked throat, poised to strike like the claw of a panther.
Suddenly, thunder boomed out of the darkness and a bullet zipped through the air, sending up a fine spray of gravel inches from the shadow’s foot. The shadow leapt up and swayed like a drunkard as he tried to locate the gun that had fired at him. As if to help him, the thunder boomed again, and this time flakes of stone and brick-dust were raised from the wall behind.
The shadow crouched down instinctively and began to scuttle away. But his momentary panic made him careless and without realising it he stumbled into the glare of a skylight, fully revealing himself to his unseen enemy.
Squatting there in the wavering light the man looked like part of a nightmare. A long, blood-spattered lab-coat hung down to his knees, over it was tied a leather butcher’s apron of equal length. In contrast to his gory coat and apron however, the man’s trousers were of a smart pinstripe, his shoes were well-polished Oxfords, and an elegant black silk tie was visible at his throat. A white surgical mask covered his mouth, whilst the rest of his head was hidden by a white surgical cap. Perched on his rather pointed nose, were a pair of round, rimless spectacles that distorted his eyes and gave him an insane, fish-like appearance. He had also taken the precaution of wearing rubber gloves to conceal his finger-prints. But perhaps the strangest item he wore was a disc of polished metal that sat Cyclops-like in the middle of his forehead, held in place by a thick leather band, which was nothing less than a surgeon’s reflector.
Seconds later, as the fugitive came to his senses and shook off his panic; he quickly ducked out of the light and fetched up the girl, manhandling her so that once again she lay across his shoulders.
Bullets flew to his left and right, but some sixth-sense told him that whilst he was carrying the girl he was safe, and as he neared the roof’s exit he slowed his pace to an easy trot while he tried to improvise his escape.
Suddenly his legs were knocked from beneath him and he thudded heavily to the floor, dropping the girl as he fell. He struggled to get up but found a grip of iron pinning his arms to his sides and what seemed like a ten-ton weight pressing him down.
Despite the fact that he seemed caught in a vice, the strange doctor continued to struggle, but it was no good, his attacker wouldn’t concede an inch. Just as the doctor’s strength was weakening, his attacker loosed his right arm and delivered an uppercut to his opponent’s chin. The range was limited, but such was the man’s strength that the doctor was knocked abruptly into unconsciousness; and only seconds after it had begun, the struggle was over.
the man looked like part of a nightmareThe second man picked himself up and began to dust himself down.
He was dressed almost as strangely as his victim. He stood well over six feet tall, and just like the other man, his costume mixed a number of oddly conflicting items.
Over his face, he wore a steel fencing-mask whose eye-cones were vaguely reminiscent of Chameleon’s eyes. His throat and part of his chin were hidden by a high leather collar which looked like the kind worn to protect neck injuries. His heavily padded jacket was fastened across his chest by thick straps like those on a straightjacket. His trousers and knee-length boots looked as though they had once belonged to a Calvary officer, whilst his gun-belt seemed as if it had come from a Wild-West show; but instead of a six-shooter the gun now sheathed in its leather holster, was in fact a Webley .38; a weapon usually seen in the possession of an English army officer. Finally, an impressive looking sabre hung at his side.
But if all this wasn’t striking enough, the whole imposing picture was completed by a mass of bone-white hair, neatly swept back from his wide, intelligent forehead.
However, this newcomer was clearly unconcerned about the oddness of his appearance and seemed unconcerned about the risk of being spotted. Instead of trying to conceal himself in the shadows, or even trying to escape like the strange doctor he’d knocked unconscious, the second man pulled a small glass ampoule from a pouch on his gun-belt and carefully broke it under the woman’s nose. Almost immediately she spluttered and coughed, wrenched back to consciousness by the overpowering smell of ammonia. She sat up groggily and saw the masked and smiling face of her rescuer floating above her. Tears filled her eyes and she threw herself gratefully towards him in terror and relief; but she was too late. Her rescuer had already gone and instead of falling into his arms as she had hoped, she found herself tumbling onto the floor.
A moment later, she raised herself on one elbow and looked around in astonishment. Her astonishment grew even more, as all at once she spotted the reason for her rescuer’s sudden disappearance. A group of red-faced gendarmes were running across the roof in her general direction, their short capes flapping behind them. They were firing their pistols and screaming for her rescuer to stop.
Meanwhile, the man had reached the edge of the roof and had skidded to a halt. There was nowhere left for him to go and now rescuer looked in need of rescue. Bullets smacked into the stone parapet near his feet. The man glanced over his shoulder and saw the policemen bearing down on him like a heard of blue buffaloes; then he peered over the edge of the roof, his face suddenly breaking into a smile.
A jet-bike and rider suddenly rushed upwards, rapidly drawing level with the edge of the roof.
The man jumped. A split-second later he landed with ease on the bike’s pillion seat. The gendarmes kept on firing until eventually they were deafened by their own pistols, but they were too late. Long before the last gun had clicked into silence, the second man and his rescuer had vanished into the evening.
II.The evening following the incident on the Metropole roof, found Superintendent Celestine Janvier of the Ombreville Judicial Police sitting at her desk. She was struggling to finish an unrelated report, but was distracted by the headline of the evening edition of the Ombreville Liberator, where it lay upside down on the corner of her desk.
BARBARIC BUTCHERY BAFFLED AS PILOT SAVES BEAUTY FROM CHOP! Screamed the headline, tempting her away from her dull statistics and graphs.
Janvier sighed and pushed the report away. She leant back in her chair making it creak and groan with the extra effort. She wiped the back of her neck with the flat of a large, nicotine-stained hand and went on staring despondently at the half-filled page in front of her.
Janvier was a large, big-boned woman, with wide shoulders and hips. In her early career her size and her naturally ruddy complexion had often meant she had been mistaken for a milkmaid or a servant girl up in the big city for a spree. It was a mistake many of the Ombreville underworld had lived to regret; and a mistake she had been all too happy to capitalise on, gathering a number of important and surprising arrests along the way. Now age and seniority had hardened her face into a heavy, saturnine mask and restricted the range of her clothing to a degree of nun-like severity.
Now in fact, only the lustre of her chestnut hair and the sparkle of her grey eyes spoke of the intelligence and vitality that still lived within her.
Janvier dabbed her forehead with a handkerchief. Outside, it was another sweltering evening. Despite the fact that her office window was open, there wasn’t a breath of wind to relieve the heat. It was too hot to do anything. Even too hot for murder and yet murders were being done. So reports had to be written about them, and yet…
Janvier gave up the struggle and threw her pen down in disgust. The pen skipped across the blotter with a flat ‘tap, tap’.
Meanwhile, the Superintendent leaned across the desk, grabbed the newspaper angrily and shook it open. It was as if the paper had been screaming at her all evening and now she must silence it with the authoritative slap of reason.
BARBARIC BUTCHERY BAFFLED AS PILOT SAVES BEAUTY FROM CHOP!
In the small hours of this morning as if in a scene from a romance of the Revolution, pretty Florette Defleur (22) was saved from the cold steel of the notorious serial killer known as ‘Dr Fleischer’. Fleischer had abducted the attractive mannequin from a party given by the famous English gambler, Lord Neville Forbes-Danberry.
The party, held in the Hotel Metropole was crowded with a string of wealthy guests, and Miss Florette’s disappearance went unnoticed for some time.
Whilst the revellers danced and joked, Dr Fleischer, dressed in the mockery of a surgeon’s gown, drugged Miss Florette and prepared to brutally slaughter her on the roof of the very same hotel where the party was being held. Miss Florette continues the story:
It was very scary. The ugly man, that Doctor fellow was holding a knife at my throat. I’m sure he was about to chop my head off. Then there was some shooting and the Doctor ran off. Next thing I knew I was in the manly arms of someone dressed all in black. I couldn’t see his face but I felt very safe. Then some idiot policemen began firing at the man in black, so he escaped. But he didn’t drop me; he set me gently on my feet and kissed me lightly on the cheek. Then, just before he jumped on his friend’s jet-bike, he turned and smiled at me. His teeth were dazzling.
The gendarmes, local air-traffic cops, had been alerted by the sound of pistol shots. Rushing to investigate, they mistakenly opened fire on The Pilot who they thought was assaulting the seductive young mannequin. Meanwhile, thanks to the confusion created by the cops’ foolish blunder, Dr. Fleischer was easily able to make his escape.
Janvier closed her paper with a snort and after dropping it carelessly on the desk, leant back in her chair. She opened a desk drawer and reached for a crumpled packet, pulling out her last cheroot. After lighting it, she narrowed her eyes and squinted thoughtfully through the lengthening column of smoke.
It seemed that the enigmatic Forever Pilot had descended on Ombreville. What was worse, he seemed to be close on the trail of the equally mysterious Doctor Fleischer, the subject of some of her own investigations. And no matter how famous or daring he was, this Pilot fellow could only mean trouble. And if there was one thing Superintendent Janvier hated, it was an unnecessary amount of trouble.
Janvier brushed a hand over her neatly coiled hair. Thoughts of the two mysterious men seeped through her head like spilt ink, blurring and merging in her imagination. Who was this absurd Forever Pilot, and what had he to do with Fleischer? Were the two connected somehow? For six months now, one name had been on the lips of every man woman and child in Europe . It was absurd and theatrical and yet, with its overtones of eternity, it was strangely exciting too. The name was simply ‘The Forever Pilot’.
No one knew where he came from. No one knew his real name or his true history. The only fact anyone knew for certain was that strange name he’d carelessly thrown to a journalist when first he’d roared out of an empty January sky; that and the growing list of noble actions he had performed all over Europe.
Robberies, kidnappings, murders and bombings; all had been solved or prevented by the timely intervention of The Forever Pilot and his companion Maxim. During those six months The Forever Pilot had seemed to be everywhere at once, hanging in the skies of Europe like a huge black question mark.
Meanwhile winter turned into spring, spring turned into summer and still The Forever Pilot dominated the headlines of every city in Europe . And not just Europe . Now his fame had spread to the Americas Africa , Asia .
The Forever Pilot (the papers proclaimed) was ‘a phenomenon!’ The Forever Pilot was ‘a fad that no one had grown tired of yet!’ The Forever Pilot was ‘a new Messiah!’ The Forever Pilot was ‘a dangerous anarchist who must be suppressed!’ The Forever Pilot was ‘no more than a publicity stunt dreamed up by the Capitalist, Imperialist rags to boost their flagging circulations!’ The Forever Pilot was …
Janvier sighed gently and tried to clear her mind of the confusion that this Pilot fellow seemed to represent. Suddenly a voice interrupted her reverie.
“Chief, there’s some sort of a delivery. Clemenceau just rang through.”
The Superintendent looked up sharply; she hadn’t heard the tap at the door nor the office messenger’s polite cough.
“A delivery? What sort of a delivery?” she demanded testily.
“It’s Gaspard the butcher’s boy, he’s brought your usual parcel.”
Of course, it was Wednesday. Claude came with vegetables on Tuesday, Gaspard with the meat on Wednesday. She scowled to cover her embarrassment. Janvier was well aware that her individual attention from the merchants of Ombreville was a constant source of amusement amongst her colleagues.
“Of course he claims it’s a delivery of meat,” smirked the messenger, “but I have my suspicions.” The old man gave a bark of amusement and then quickly shuffled out of office in order to avoid a rebuke.
A few moments later, Janvier shrugged on her jacket and hurried to collect her parcel.
By the time she made it to the porter’s desk her feeling of annoyance had grown, filling her with a hot, silent fury. The large crowd that had gathered round the desk didn't help either.
Even though most of the staff were at old Vernet’s retirement party there was still quite a commotion going on. This was nothing new in itself. Sometimes evenings could be the rowdiest part of the shift. Only there was something unusually focussed in the crowd’s noise that alerted Janvier’s suspicions; something different from the customary evening free-for-all.
She was about to snarl at the babbling men and women to get out of her way when she caught sight of Gaspard the delivery boy through a gap in the crowd. The boy was slumped in a chair by the porter’s desk. His face was as white as raw pastry, whilst his sightless eyes were round with horror. He was trembling uncontrollably. Clemenceau, the night-porter, was leaning over the boy trying to calm him down.
“Chief! Thank God it’s you!” exclaimed Clemeceau when he caught sight of her. “Look what’s on my desk, not your normal delivery I’m sure? Poor Gaspard’s taken it pretty badly.”
Janvier pushed her way through the crowd so that she could see what Clemenceau was babbling about.
Then she saw it.
Squatting in the middle of a pile of newspaper was a joint of meat entirely different from the one she’d been expecting. Blood from the joint ran down the middle of the paper, soaking into Clemenceau’s blotter like scarlet ink. The meat itself was nearly as grey as the paper on which it sat, crowned by a circle of ragged crimson gristle and bone. It gave off the unmistakably sour-sweet stench of putrefaction.
Janvier, whose face was known to be as impassive as a stone lion’s, gaped in amazement. Lying there on Clemenceau’s desk was a severed hand!
Her second big shock came a few hours later. Still reeling from the gruesome delivery, Janvier took an etherphone call in her office.
The face of Baldon, her deputy, assembled itself on the visage-plate. For a moment Janvier was relieved to see the man’s familiar, rumpled features: his heavy, drooping eyelids that gave him an air of natural unconcern; the mop of black hair, carefully slicked back with macassar oil; the crooked, ex-boxer’s nose that gave his face a roguish quality and made him beloved amongst criminals and policemen alike.
Then, as Janvier saw the horror that was distorting his face, she felt her heart sink.
“Boss?” Baldon’s voice was hoarse with terror; “I’ve got some odd … crazy … I don’t think you’ll believe what’s just happened!"
An invisible rain of tension drummed faintly against Janvier’s scalp. She had known her unflappable deputy for nearly fifteen years and never in all that time had she heard the strange tone she detected now. Beside the terror there was something close to a tremble of hilarity in his voice.
Like the rest of the Flying Squad, Baldon had been at old Vernet’s party. In fact, as Vernet’s closest friend, he’d actually organised the whole thing. At the time it had seemed like a privilege, but now…
Janvier cut short the detective’s rambling and asked him to repeat what he’d just said.
“A foot!” He was nearly shrieking. “A god-damned almighty human foot floating around in the soup tureen!”
