Mystery Woman  part II 
by Noël Burch
A female Fantomas, expert in jiu-jitsu, spreads terror in 1910 Paris


THE HECATOMB

Was it by virtue of his family name that Jules Largentière had become officer
in charge of the escort for the weekly collection of the ticket-office
receipts in the Paris métro, a tidy sum in coins and banknotes picked up by
special train every Sunday in the small hours of the morning. They were six in
all, an accountant, a driver and two burly labourers charged with handling the
steel boxes on wheels. Only Jules and the younger officer assisting him were
armed. This was generally regarded as a "cushy" assignment. In the ten years
of the métro's existence, there had never been so much as an attempt to rob
this convoy, if only because of the heavy iron gates that clanged shut at
every station entrance when service ended and the ticket-sellers left for home
shortly before midnight.

On this particular night, the slow-moving train - a switch- engine and one
specially designed carriage - had just ground to a halt at the front-end of
the eastern platform of the Saint Michel station, just opposite the pair of
pneumatic lifts. The group divided then; Jules remained in the carriage with
the accountant and driver, whilst the policeman and the two navvies entered
the lift wheeling the empty strong-boxes, soon to be exchanged "up top" for
identical containers holding the week's take at this station.

In order to make sense of the events that followed, we must emphasize two
particularities, one concerning this halt on the collection route and the
other the physical arrangements at Saint Michel station itself: at that late
hour, the convoy would have collected over 90% of the weeks receipts on that
line... and the twin lifts linking tunnel to surface were in counter-weight
suspension: when the one went up, the other went down...

Largentière stood looking out through the open doors of what might have been a
railway postal carriage, except that it was designed to accommodate money
boxes instead of envelopes and parcels. The accountant was seated behind him,
the driver was at his post in the engine cab. The police officer's eye had
been idly following the rising lift to the top of its openwork shaft, when his
attention was drawn to the opening of the doors to the neighboring shaft when
the cabin has settled at platform level. And he gave a start. For these
opening did not reveal, as was to be expected at this late hour, the inside of
an empty cage but a silhouette which was unmistakably female, closely swathed
in black from tip to toe. Immediately, the woman took a quick step forward
whilst with a sharp tug detaching from the necklace round her throat a small
object which in one continuous motion she hurled in the direction of the
waiting train. Largentière screamed and dropped his pistol, staring in horror
at the thing that had just planted itself in the fleshy part of his upper arm:
the "thing" was a steel disk bristling with tiny blades. He tried to pull it
out, but the blades tore at his flesh like fish-hooks: the agony of it made
him feel faint and he gave up his efforts, gripping his arm to relieve the
pain as best he could.. Whilst the officer was thus absorbed in his grievous
injury, the woman in black, in three rapid strides, had reached the carriage
door: the accountant lunged forward, his fists raised threateningly, and threw
an awkward punch, but there was no one to receive it ... And then suddenly
there she was someone, standing so close he could smell her scent, and she
struck him in the strangest way, with the heels of both hands, causing
simultaneous jolts to jaw and temple. There was flash in his brain and the man
lost consciousness. The last to try his luck was the driver, a heavy-set
proletarian. Sneaking up behind the intruder, he seized her by the neck with
his powerful hands: it should be an easy matter, thought he, to choke this
chit of a woman into submission. The riposte was swift in coming, yet so
subtle that it took him entirely unawares so delicately had the woman had
taken the tip of his little finger between gloved thumb and forefinger and
then given it a sharp, practiced, twist! The man screamed and released his
hold instantly but she did not release his finger and now, having seized his
thumb firmly in the other leather fist, she had him utterly at her mercy,
wrist and shoulder locked in a quite unnatural position, forcing him both to
stand on tiptoes and bend over forward, manoeuvring him slowly, almost as if
relishing the absolute sway she held over this imposing male body. When her
victim was in the proper position, she cocked her arm over her head, took a
deep breath and with a little shout dealt the fellow a quick blow to a precise
spot at the base of his skull with the tip of her little elbow. Struck thus,
he fell flat on his chest, arms and legs flailing helplessly, unable to rise,
unable even to roll over on his back...

La Mystérieuse turned back to Jules Largentière, lying at the far end of the
carriage, frozen less with pain than with fear. For he had just witnessed a
display of personal combat prowess such as he had not dreamed possible, seen a
small, slender, woman render unconscious in quick succession two big men, one
of whom might have been a piano-remover! And now here she was coming for him
where he lay curled up in one corner, cradling his damaged arm. The wound had
begun to burn atrociously, as if the weapon had been coated with some
corrosive substance... The terrifying female in black tights stooped and gave
him a single stiff-finger jab under the rib-cage winding him promptly and
distracting his attention whilst she delicately removed the little star-shaped
dagger from his arm - a gesture which had more to do with retrieving her
possession than relieving her victim's pain. Wiping the blood drops on the
policeman's jacket, she clipped the weapon to the slender chain she wore about
her neck. Then, still without a word, she took Jules' hand gently but firmly
in hers and locked it with a twist against her chest as she rose. He scrambled
to his feet to escape the pain she was almost negligently inflicting, and as
she slipped behind him with another twisting motion, a screaming pain in his
shoulder obliged him to once again take up his stand in the open doorway,
facing the twin lift-shafts. The machinery was running again. At last La
Mystérieuse deigned to speak. "You are going to behave exactly as I tell you,
or this is what will happen to you... " She took his elbow in the leathern
grip of her other hand, felt for the right spot, probing... The man let out a
scream that was scarcely human and felt about to faint: his heart jumped
alarmingly and he thought his last moment had come : "Feel what I can do to
you? This is a Chinese pressure point: with the tip of my thumb, I can stop
your heart in an instant! So be very careful how you behave..."

Seconds later, the doors slid back and the two workers stepped out ahead of
the policeman, pushing their boxes and noticing nothing amiss, for la
Mystérieuse was completely hidden by Jules Largentière's bulky figure. She
whispered her orders in his ear - "One step forward..." "Smile..." "Wave to
them." - and he hastened to obey, dreading a further demonstration.

La Mystérieuse did not reveal her presence until the doors of the lift had
clanged shut behind her only armed adversary. Still applying the jiu-jitsu
grip that made Jules her puppet to control, she shifted her weight and her
free arm described a wide, quick circle. But Jules, as soon as he had felt the
muscled thighs go tense against his own, had given a warning shout, which was
followed by a metallic clatter and thud, for the officer had thrown himself to
the ground and the deadly weapon had bounced harmlessly off the steel door. As
was to be expected, Jules immediately paid the price of his initiative, but
not in the threatened way, for his captor still had need of him: she was
concealed behind him again, and seizing a lock of hair at his temple twisted
it wickedly. Jules hardly had time to react to this new pain, before his
unpredictable assailant had shot her other hand between his legs and brutally
gripped him by the private parts! Whether he suffered more from the pain that
tore at abdomen, or from the shame at having his "family jewels" manhandled
thus before his colleagues by a "bird", he could not say... and there was
nothing haphazard about the way she was holding them either, squeezing one of
the elusive little spheres between thumb and forefinger in a certain way,
inflicting at the same time a practiced twist to the scrotum. The pain was
like nothing he had ever known. "Start walking," hissed his tormentress,
accentuating her double grip. He screamed again, stepped gingerly down from
the carriage and started walking towards the young officer, who could not risk
a shot for fear of wounding Jules. And so, step by step, he backed away until
he was close against the steel doors. And Jules kept coming on, transformed
into an automat by excruciating pain.

And then there came another bloodcurdling scream, because the devilish woman
had just torn his testicles from his body (or so it seemed to Jules) at the
same time as she struck his ankle with the edge of a leather sole. Inevitably,
he lost his balance, came crashing into the young copper who suddenly found
himself pinned to the platform beneath the considerable weight of his older
colleague. The two workers in charge of the boxes decided that it was time for
them to weigh into this bizarre mêlée and together they rushed the woman in
black tights... But their mighty fists flailed empty air and they found
themselves seriously off balance: curled up on the floor at their feet, the
nimble jiu-jitsuan had only to catch the bottoms of their trousers and spring
to her feet, sending the two hapless fellows crashing on their faces. They lay
moaning on the platform and soon passed out. Now, whilst Jules was in no
condition to oppose the woman's scientific violence, the younger officer,
having extricated himself from under his superior, was now unsuccessfully
feeling for his gun beneath the suffering hulk. Sensing the presence of his
Nemesis, he raised his eyes. La Mystérieuse stood motionless, looking down at
him, arms folded beneath her breasts. He forgot about the gun and leapt to his
feet with all the youthful energy he could muster, taking the defensive
posture learned in his savate training. Was it his imagination, or were the
steely eyes he glimpsed through the narrow slit in the black silk were smiling
at him?

He feinted a kick, threw a punch... and this was to be his sole contribution
to the unequal contest. His fist grazed the woman's shoulder and she was
suddenly close against him, had him by the coat collar, and already he knew he
was beaten, so great was the confidence that exuded from every movement, every
muscle of that wonderfully graceful body: far from trying to counter the man's
strength and weight as he struggled against her, the woman fell lightly back
onto the platform, pulling him toward her by the jacket, lifting him with a
forearm between his legs. And the neophyte kick boxer, carried away by his own
momentum, executed in spite of himself a spectacular somersault, falling
heavily on his back. His acrobatic thrower having herself executed a perfect
backward sommersault, was already sitting astride his chest, knees planted
painfully in the centre of his biceps, immobilizing him utterly with a one
black fingertip pressed deep into the hollow of his throat. The last thing he
saw was a gloved hand, open and stiff, which she seemed to be holding up for
him to see, before she struck him a smart blow with edge of her palm on some
precise spot below his ear. There was an electric explosion in his head and he
slid into darkness...

And now La Mystérieuse had entirely neutralised the opposition. Why had she
decided to run the risk of offending the sensibilities of her eccentric
"ally", inspector Lécoux? Perhaps she wanted to make absolutely certain her
exploit would earn lurid headlines. Whatever the case, her chosen sacrificial
victim was to be poor Jules Largentière. She stood over the huge male who
still lay on his face, moaning. "Never mind, old fellow, it's almost over,"
she whispered in his ear. Positioning her delicately muscled, silken legs on
either side of his massive torso, she dropped into a studied crouch and slowly
spread her arms, all the while breathing deeply in and out several times. When
she was ready, she uttered a strange, piercing war cry and struck the man on
both ears with cupped hands... once, twice in quick succession. He died
without a murmur, blood trickling out of each ear.

As for the driver, who still lay twitching on the floor of the carriage, his
fate would be different: he was still needed. La Mystérieuse knelt beside him
and with the tips of her leathern fingers gave the man's neck and spine a
knowledgeable massage. Soon the spasmodic muscular contractions ceased and the
heavy body relaxed.

"On your feet, friend and go to your controls..." The man sat up, visibly
hesitant, still not sure what was happening to him. Moving on her knees as
easily as on her feet, the woman sidled up to him and took his arm almost
affectionately. "Need I remind you what it could cost you not to obey me? Look
around you and see what my jiu-jitsu skills has done to your colleagues... The
big one is dead, I struck him in a certain way and he died. I can do that to
you, if I wish; I know thirty-three ways of killing a man with my hands. A
blow from my finger-tips could do it... or even a sudden pinch... I have very
strong hands, you know..." He felt the cool glove on his neck, the tip of her
thumb encountered his Adams' apple whilst two fingers burrowed into the soft
spot at the base of the skull.. "How would you like me to show you number 27?"
He wanted to push away the deadly hands but suddenly found he could not, for
she had slipped her arm "affectionately" around his back, and was gripped his
jacket sleeve from behind, pinning immobilizing his, at the same time as her
knee "accidentally" came down on the hand on the floor : helpless to defend
himself, he was at the mercy of the woman's deadly leathern hand on his neck.

She lei him go then, correctly assuming he was sufficiently cowed to do her
bidding. And indeed, he hastened to obey her instructions. Averting his gaze
from the desolate spectacle of the inanimate bodies of his fellow-workers
strewn about the platform, he made his way to the front of the train... Soon
the motor was running again and the train moved down the tunnel, under the
Seine, through the Cité without stopping, to Châtelet, the end of the line.
Following the woman's instructions to the letter - her presence close behind
him offering a constant threat of fatal violence at the least sign of revolt -
he came to a halt beside a handcar waiting on a parallel track. When the motor
felt silent, La Mystérieuse said to the driver: "Now turn around." The man
obeyed in a kind of stupor. "You've done me a favour, I shall return it: you
may go on living." She listened to his breathing for several long seconds,
then without warning her arm darted forth, struck the tip of a floating rib
with the heel of her gloved hand just as the lungs were empty of air. The man
said "Whoosh" and immediately lost consciousness. With supple grace, La
Mystérieuse accompanied the heavy body to the floor, presumably concerned lest
this honest worker do himself an injury...

After that, it took only a few minutes for La Mystérieuse to load her booty
onto the handcar and then, seizing the metal beam, begin to pump, slowly at
first then faster and faster as the platform on wheels gained momentum. Soon
the woman in black and her chosen vehicle were swallowed up by the inky
darkness of a maintenance tunnel.

WHAT IS TO BE DONE ?

There was a deathly silence beneath the gilded trimmings when inspector Lécoux
entered the conference room. The police officers and ministerial officials
assembled looked upon him today with more respect than before. The chef de
cabinet put it to him bluntly. "Whom are we dealing with here?" "Sir, if you
will forgive me, I would say that is the wrong question. The right question
would be ‘what are we dealing with here?' " A murmur went round the room,
which the inspector was at pains to forestall:"No, no, I do not mean to say
that this woman is some supernatural creature. No... I merely mean she comes
out of a terrifying tradition!" And he produced a booklet which he waved under
their noses. A dealer in rare books I happen to know procured for me this
pamphlet written in the English language, of which I possess some smatterings,
a pamphlet which describes the training and activities of the spies who served
the warlords of old Japan. Be it known, gentlemen, that everything of which
that woman whom I call La Mystérieuse is capable, belongs to an arsenal of
skills of which we in Europe have no idea. Jiu-jitsu, which only come to our
shores and been mastered by only a few, is but one of those skills; what the
Japanese call nin-jitsu involves many others, such as mesmerism, violent
poisons, disguises, and a kind of invisibility, all grounded in acrobatic and
other bodily skills learnt since childhood. All the evidence, gentlemen, leads
me to believe that we are dealing with a modern ...." he faltered, glanced at
a page of his booklet, "... a modern kunoichi, the word which designates the
many female spies that received such training along with the men and whose
literal meaning..." he paused for effect, "is ‘dragon lady'... I paid a visit
to the Japanese embassy, where I was told that indeed this tradition is still
alive today and that it is more or less as the booklet describes it. Disciples
are of course far fewer now than in the past, yet they still exist and are of
both sexes... I have requested an investigation in Tokyo concerning the period
this so-called daughter of Ravachol claims to have spent there, but although
Japan is certainly much smaller than its Chinese neighbour, it is very densely
populated..."

Lécoux fell silent, satisfied that he had impressed his audience.

"At all events, your Mystérieuse is not in Tokyo now, she's in Paris" the
minister's secretary observed, stating the obvious as was his wont.

There was another lull, to which commissaire Andrieux ultimately put an end,
in the faintly sarcastic tone he always used when addressing Lécoux : "And so,
inspector... still in favour of paying that ransom, are you ?"

"I am indeed, monsieur le commissaire, and more than ever before. I suppose
you've read the evening papers? Until last night's events, that woman was a
short item on page 2. With what she pulled off in the Métropolitain, she's on
every front page; she's the terror of a nation. We won't be simply protecting
a handful of future victims with that money, we'll be preserving the
tranquillity of France, and I weigh my words: any more incidents like this
one, with the publicity they are bound to receive from the new illustrated
journals, and I think no one in this room can answer for the effects on public
opinion. Need I remind you, gentlemen,"

- he was looking straight at the Minister as he spoke - "that this is an
election year?"

This time there was murmuring on all sides. Finally the chef de cabinet rapped
his knuckles on the table and asked: "Do you think she's open to compromise?"

"We can always try... at the risk of another unpleasant episode."

"You know how to contact her?" Coming from Andrieux, it sounded like a trick
question. "Of course not, she sends me notes... which she writes, wearing
gloves, on a pneumatique form sold at any tobacco shop, and which she posts at
rush hour from the central post office on rue du Louvre... amidst at least
fifty other members of the public." He addressed the full company of
participants. "So when she does contact me - and I will be the one contacted,
I alone - am I to say I am authorized to negotiate in the name of the State?"
And without waiting for a reply he went on: "And how high am I authorized to
go?" At which point a little man in black who had said nothing at all until
now, stood up in the back of the room and uttered a single world : "Twelve".
Lécoux took note of the figure, bid good day to the assembled men and left the
room. But as he proceeded down the luxuriously carpeted hallway, he was still
sceptical: "They're sure to cook up some scheme behind my back to catch her
without paying, and they're almost bound to fail again. That will be a right
old mess and I'm the perfect scapegoat."

THE TOWER

Dear little inspector,

You saw what I did: six men, two of them armed. I hope the demonstration was
convincing, but I warn you: I'm capable of much worse. As for the copper I
sent into a better world, I have no regrets, I sensed in him an ignominious
creature who probably beat his wife...

We shall meet this very evening at 7 at the top of the Eiffel Tower. You will
come alone and we shall negotiate, and if you try to deceive me in any way,
you shall be the first to die... Until this evening then... if you dare...

There was no signature but the inspector noted that he was "vous" again. He
sat for a few minutes gazing pensively at the petit bleu that had just been
brought to him. It was two days after the "Saint-Michel massacre" as the
popular press had dubbed it in endless articles. He thought how defenceless he
would be, facing La Mystérieuse alone on the top level of the new steel tower,
300 meters above the ground! Actually, the inspector had never gone up the
tower, not out of fear exactly, it simply didn't tempt him. He preferred to
admire the eighth wonder of the world from down below, and in fact often had
occasion to do so.

In the late autumn twilight, le Champ de Mars was swept by wind and rain.
Still wearing his right arm in a sling, the inspector stood for long minutes
with his back to the Palais du Trocadéro across the Seine looking up at that
miracle of French technology. He was early for the appointment set by his
Mystery woman. His pocket watch showed 6 PM when he began leisurely walking
towards the small queue before the raised box-office at the foot of the Tower.
He did not join the queue, but took his stand a few meters away, as though he
were waiting for someone. In fact, he was watching the line of visitors out of
the corner of his eye, hoping to recognize under some disguise or other the
woman whom he still could not bring himself to think of as a "murderer". On
several occasions, he thought he recognized his prey, but each time the
resemblance with the woman reading in the métro - his only glimpse of La
Mystérieuse without her mask - was just too weak. At a quarter to seven, he
gave up on what he knew to be an absurd hope. Turning to the gardien de la
paix on duty by the lift entrance, he was about to flash his tricolore police
card, when suddenly he froze : half a hundred steps away he had caught sight
of a familiar face, a young inspector whose path he had occasionally crossed
at the sûreté. A coincidence was out of the question: he was here for Her. And
yet Lécoux had changed fiacres three times, he was certain he hadn't been
followed. And he alone had read the pneumatique which lay safe in his overcoat
pocket. At all events, what was he to do now? Have it out with the tyro? A
waste of time! The youngster would have his orders and would certainly not be
alone. The inspector glanced discreetly around him and indeed thought he
recognized more colleagues of his, scattered here and there, ostentatiously
looking the other way.

He decided to pretend he'd noticed nothing. If his superiors wanted to
endanger their men, they were within their right and their men were obligated
to obey. If his opinion had been sought, he would have done all he could to
oppose such a decision. The rest was in the hands of Fate.

The cage-doors slid open and the inspector stepped out onto the second level
of the Tower in the company of a handful of well-dressed bourgeois who headed
straight for the fashionable restaurant. The wind was even stronger now and
the rain pelted noisily on the iron above their heads. Only two other
passengers were left to wait with him for the lift to the top: two young
peasants from the South-West, built like rugby men and who had paid the extra
fee to brave the storm at the top of the Tower, a Paris adventure to be told
back on the farm of a winter evening by the hearth. As it happened, the poor
chaps were in for more of an adventure than they'd bargained for.

At the end of its steel cable, the cabin came slowly to rest and the glass
doors slid open. By prerogative of age, the inspector was the first to step
into the dim-lit cage ahead of the two young giants. The silent lift-operator
stood with his back to his passengers. Seemingly indifferent to the tickets
held out to him for inspection, he moved the control lever. There was a
distant whirr, a squeak of metal and the cage began its climb. Soon the
inspector began to feel the effects of the swaying tower: there were
butterflies in his stomach. The young peasants, on the contrary, appeared
immune to vertigo: noses to the glass, they were admiring through the steel
lacework glimpses of the twilight cityscape laid out beneath them in the rain
and fog. Here and the there one could see the twinkle of electric signs,
already omnipresent in the capital. In vain did the inspector know full well
that the swaying of the tower was not only normal but essential to the
monument's survival, that it was mounted on giant hydraulic pistons which
absorbed the power of the wind, his nausea was enhanced by an unreasoned fear.

But suddenly a less abstract fear completely obliterated the nausea, for he
had just realised that while the lift operator was wearing the cap and jacket
of some uniform, the lower part of his (?) get-up was far less orthodox. The
light was very dim inside the cramped cage, but the inspector was sure he
could see a pair of black tights and ribbed leather leggings which were only
too familiar: the dreaded woman of mystery was standing there with her back to
him, only a few centimetres away.

As the cage rose into the twilit sky, the swaying gathered amplitude, but a
strange mixture of fear and exaltation had cured his nausea for good. Yet even
at the top of his form, what could he expect to do? Even with the help of the
two husky farm-boys, did he really think he could arrest this woman, knock her
out, put handcuffs on her? Of course he had his gun, but unless he were to
shoot his enemy right now, in the back, he knew full well that any regulation
warning such as "Hands up or I'll shoot" in the immediate vicinity of the
mistress of Jiu-jitsu was inevitably fatal. Not to mention the fact as a man
of gallantry and defender of Republican legality, shooting a woman in the back
was a distasteful prospect. And thus for the second time in less than a
quarter of an hour, Aimé Lécoux pretended he hadn't noticed.

On the top level, night had fallen altogether and the storm become a tempest.
The platform was swaying so severely now he felt the breaking point could not
be far. Without a glance at the bogus lift attendant, the inspector arranged
to put the burly peasants' bulk between him and his presumed Nemesis and
together they walked to the high mesh fence that rose between visitors and a
free fall of over 300 meters. Several minutes went by and nothing happened.
Finally, he gathered the courage to look back over his shoulder. The cabin was
still there, the door was standing wide open, but beyond the circle of light
from the platform's single luminary, he had only a dim impression of the
attendant's silhouette, looking slimmer than before. Then suddenly the dark
figure strode determinedly towards them with a catlike rolling gait, her
powerful legs absorbing the sway of the tower with the expertise of an old
sailor. The inspector gave a warning shout and the two peasants spun round in
perfect synchronism to face a frail female figure fast approaching and which
some instinct told them was no bearer of good tidings.

And so the two country boys had a perfectly natural, instinctive reaction:
they held out their big hands to fend off the attacker. They might as well
have stuck out their chins for Charpentier: having rid herself of the
attendant's cap and jacket (what had become of him? the inspector wondered),
wearing now only her black silk coverall, La Mystérieuse gripped one of those
big wrists in each gloved hand and used the two giant's own thrusting momentum
to drew them to her, all the while entangling their arms in some subtle way.
The men began to scream, wrist- and shoulder-joints twisted mercilessly and
locked: they'd become Siamese twins, inextricably bound together, forced to
stand on tip-toe, "looking absolutely ridiculous" the inspector almost
chortled to himself. The spectacular grip by which that "chit of a woman" held
two great hulking brutes at her mercy, was but a means to an end: the first
farmboy was gratified with a sharp blow from a shapely knee on one tip of his
pelvis and immediately collapsed, half-conscious, his weight dragging his
companion with him and who in turn received a still stranger coup de grace, as
a petite leathern fist struck him with careful precision on the top of his
skull and he immediately lost consciousness. With both men on the floor, la
Mystérieuse bent over her first victim and put him to sleep in turn with a
brusque movement that Lécoux could not see.

"Ravachol's daughter" stood up then and addressed him in that mocking tone of
hers: "Alone at last! Just the two of us, now, dear inspector mine!" She moved
towards him; fearing an attack, he backed away, pistol at the ready (he had
practiced drawing from the shoulder-holster with his left hand ever since La
Mystérieuse had so cruelly broken his wrist). Oh, he knew she was already too
close... and yet she made no aggressive move. In fact her whole attitude
seemed quite peacable... and yet the inspector knew how fast her reflexes
were, how sudden her changes of mood...and he held his breath...

"Now, now my friend, you don't want me to break your other wrist, do you? or
ill-treat one of your vital organs the way I know how? A collapsed lung, a
burst pancreas is always a nasty experience...So put away that plaything and
let us talk... I suppose that because you have kept this appointment, you have
a proposal for me on behalf of your superiors.

"That is correct, Madame... I am authorized to offer you ten million."

She gazed at him, slowly lifted one gloved hand and lay her fingers on his
cheek with what seemed to be actual tenderness. "Which means," she resumed as
softly as before, "that you can go to fifteen, can't you?" and he screamed. He
screamed because she had pinched his cheek! Not way you pinch an adorable
baby: her finger and thumb inside the leather were like steel pincers, and
their grip was not haphazard, for the pain it caused drained all the strength
from his body: "This hurts, n'est-ce pas? I am pinching the trigeminal nerve,
the pain soon becomes unbearable, it can ultimately affect the brain..." She
relaxed her pressure and the pain receded. He had nearly fainted and now he
thought he was going to be sick. The terrible leather-clad fingers lingered on
his burning cheek and he became aware that she had taken advantage of his pain
and the distraction it afforded to trap his left arm under her armpit, with
the result that his revolver was useless now and that he could neither pull
his body away from hers nor remove his cheek from the dangerous proximity of
those terrible fingers: "No, no..." he panted. "Twelve... twelve is as high as
they'll go, it's their last word." She released him and backed away. It was
only then that the Inspector saw, through the red veil of pain clouding his
vision still, that La Mystérieuse was wearing strapped to her back a mountain
climbers' knapsack, as black as her silk coverall. "Poor little inspector...
why didn't you say so right away? You could have avoided the dreadful bruise
you'll have on your cheek tomorrow... All right, I'll settle for twelve
million... as a down payment! You'll hear from me as soon as..."

She broke off suddenly and before his marvelling eyes executed a spectacular
backward somersault, disappearing into the shadows! Above the howl of the wind
whistling through the iron lacework, the kunoichi's highly trained hearing had
detected a human presence. And indeed, the next moment at the top of the
narrow, winding flight of 1617 steps which allowed intrepid tourists to reach
the summit for only a few sous, a dark, panting figured emerged pointing his
gun at the only target in sight: his colleague, inspector Aimé Lécoux. La
Mystérieuse had vanished, but only to reappear now behind the newcomer, a
position where her jiu-jitsu expertise left him not a ghost of a chance.
Seizing the sleeve of the arm that held his gun and gripping the collar of his
coat, she pulled him sharply off balance, thrusting the edge of the sole of
her soft boot into the hollow of his knee-joint. The man was on both knees
now, body bent backward at such an angle that no defence was possible. There
was a faint cracking sound and a horrendous scream was lost in a gust of wind:
La Mystérieuse had just broken the arm holding the gun against her shapely
thigh as easily as she would snap a matchstick. The revolver clattered to the
platform and she kicked it away. Again she kicked out and caught the following
gendarme beneath his Adam's Apple before he'd reached the top of the narrow
stairwell: his whole body twitched spasmodically and there was a horrid
gurgling in his throat as he fell down the stairs; the men coming up hard on
his heels tripped over his solid frame. A rifle could be heard tumbling down
the steps.

La Mystérieuse, however, finally decided the odds were too great and made a
totally unexpected move. Turning her back on her fresh adversaries pouring out
of the stairwell, she began loping towards the edge of the platform
overlooking the Seine, shouting back over her shoulder at the dumbfounded
inspector: "Your higher-ups just don't understand, do they? Get the money
together, I'll be in touch!" And then, taking a run-up like an Olympic
athlete, she performed a spectacular forward somersault that took her over the
protective fence and out into space! By the light of the little lamps that
dotted the giant structure, Lécoux, nose fastened to grillwork, watched the
silk-encased body falling through the night. He felt a painful tightening in
his throat. Suicide? However in the Good Lord's name...? His mother's
expression came back to him from childhood, submerging his atheistic bias, so
powerful was the sense of loss he experienced...

But already, like a kind of miracle, a huge circle of black cloth had
blossomed over the falling body, had filled with air and become a sort of
balloon, already blown into the distance by the powerful East wind. Traversing
the Seine in the wink of an eye, it headed straight for the Bois de Boulogne,
with a slender black silhouette hanging underneath...

THE ABDUCTION

Sworn statement dictated to brigadier Gautier, Emile, by Coëgan, Yannick, born
22 January in Brest, lift attendant in the employ of la Société de la Tour
Eiffel, following the attack which he suffered on the evening of 10 December
1910.

"I was quietly performing the duties which behove me, which is to say
operating the lift which carries visitors from the second to the third levels
of the Eiffel Tower. This was my sixth ascension since I had come on duty at
4PM. There was only one passenger in the cabin, a lady -- considering as how
she was dressed, especially her beautiful leather gloves, very thin leather,
close-fitting and no doubt very expensive, I assumed she was a lady, though
later I was not so certain. She was also carrying a bag, a big black leather
bag. During the ascension, I had the impression she was watching my hands very
closely, probably learning the operations you need to know to run the lift,
but at the time I wondered why. Later, when I was told the lady had taken my
place with evil intent, I felt very humiliated, but what could I have done? It
was all so quick and the things that lady did to me... well I couldn't have
stopped her... When we reached the top, there was no one else around on
account of the storm. At first, I thought the lady had changed her mind; then,
on her way out of the cabin, she smiled as she passed. It was a very pretty
smile, was almost... [the witness searches for words]...affectionate... but
with a kind of... compassion... Then she raised her hand, not her fist, mind
you, her hand was open, I thought she was going to slap me and I wondered why?
Why would a woman who didn't even know me would want to slap me, but instead
she hit me with the edge of her hand, like this [the witness demonstrates],
hit me right on the temple and I saw stars. I stumbled but I didn't fall
because I clung to the lady's shoulders. She looked annoyed, as if she'd
slipped up, but I could hardly keep to my feet and I had one whopping
headache. I I heard her breathe a little sigh and she pulled me close, which
was not disagreeable, but then to keep me close, she dug her thumb or
something into my kidney, and that was very disagreeable! I felt her other
hand on my throat, like she was feeling for some special part and when she
found it, she pinched... hard! And it was weird, because it wasn't like being
throttled, I could breath all right, but everything went blood-red, I thought
my head would just about explode... and after that everything went blank till
I woke up in the Marconi room [a reference to the experimentations with
wireless telegraphy conducted by the great Italian scientist]. It was dark, I
lay on my face with my thumbs and feet were tied behind me by my bootlaces and
I had a leather ball in my mouth. My position was extremely uncomfortable.
After many hours, I've no idea how many, police officers broke down the door
and freed my hands and feet. But we had to wait for a locksmith to remove the
leather and steel gag from my mouth.

Signed and witnessed this day, etc."

Lécoux laid the sheaf of witnessed statements on his desk and sat pensively.
The consequences of "operation Eiffel Tower" as it had been ironically dubbed
in the offices of the Sûreté, were relatively un-dramatic. True, one of the
wounded officers was in a critical state, but the medical profession had every
hope of avoiding a fatal outcome from that "coup de savate en pointe"
(according to the official diagnosis) struck just beneath the Adam's apple.
Investigators had also established that the criminal made her escape thanks to
a "parachute Robert" the latest invention of the sort, already tested many
times by its inventor over the cliffs at étretat.

The "ransom" money had been collected - in used notes, pursuant to
instructions received from La Mystérieuse. It was presently deposited in a
strong-box at the Sûreté. Lécoux had access to the sum whenever he wished, by
day or by night. Because, henceforth "little inspector" was to be taken very
seriously. Orders had come down from the head of State: these sordid headlines
must cease; let La Mystérieuse vanish of her own accord with the blessings of
the government, since the police had proven incapable of putting her under
lock and key.

Yet several weeks went by before there came that quiet Sunday in September
when a boy, knee-high to a grasshopper, appeared below the desk of the orderly
on duty at the Sûreté with a message which he had strict orders to deliver
only into the hands of inspector Lécoux. The orderly had his instructions: the
little rascal was practically carried up to the office on the fifth floor of
the building. Since the events on the Eiffel Tower, Lécoux had had a cot
brought in and his meals sent from an Auvergne restaurant on the corner of the
quai de la Messagérie. The sanctuary of his home having been peremptorily
violated once before, he felt safer here from the molestations of La
Mystérieuse. Besides which, two floors below, the small fortune meant to "buy
off" Ravachol's avenger was available at a moment's notice.

The message brought by the innocent child was by far the tersest he had
received since the beginning of this difficult case.

"This evening, 6PM, place du Panthéon for the delivery."

The very personal handwriting, almost a calligraphy (that Japanese childhood
of hers, he thought) were the only signature he needed. Lécoux glanced at his
watch and calculated that if he hurried, he had just time enough to fetch the
satchel from the strongbox, and make it up the rue Saint-Jacques in time for
his appointment. By eschewing the hazards of the pneumatique network, his
enemy had made sure that even if he had intended to bring a discreet escort,
he would not have had time to raise one on a Sunday. But in fact his intention
to ascend the montagne Sainte-Geneviève alone was dictated precisely by his
unwillingness to alert anyone at all in la Grande maison: this was a mission
he must carry out alone. And so he set out, leather satchel discreetly
manacled to his right wrist, delivered the previous week of the plaster cast
that had made his right hand useless.... And yet if there was to be gunplay,
he now preferred to have his left hand free.

Night had fallen over the place du Panthéon, practically deserted on that
particular Sunday like the rest of the Latin Quarter: it was Fall break for
students of the Sorbonne. Two or three pedestrians were hastening homewards, a
noisy motorized taxi emerged from the rue Soufflot and turned down the rue
Saint-Jacques, while two fiacres were disappearing in the direction of
Saint-Etienne du Mont, where Vespers was ringing. At first glance he'd been
surprised by the vagueness of the woman's note regarding the exact location of
their meeting. Now he understood her reasoning: he was practically alone on
the footpath, easily observed by anyone watching from afar. As "she" was
surely watching him at this very moment, he thought. And yet he was wrong,
very wrong indeed.

For suddenly there came the roar of a many-cylindered engine and a veritable
"torpedo" thundred out of the rue d'Ulm, bore straight down on him where he
stood with his back to the mairie du 5e arrondissement and skidded to a halt
with a shriek of tyres less than fifty centimetres from his nascent paunch.
Unthinkingly, he leaned towards the low racing car. He was trying to make out
the face of the driver beneath the dark green hood when the door suddenly
popped open and a gloved hand darted out like a jack-in-the-box and the
startled inspector found himself drawn irresistibly inside the small vehicle
by implacable leather grip on his upper lip. The pincer-like fingers hurt
atrociously, of course, but mostly he was experiencing the humiliation of the
bull led by a ring in his nose... at the same time as he inhaled the captious
perfume of her leather glove...

The motor was still running. And no sooner was he seated beside the driver,
than she put her machine into gear and took off again so suddenly that the
door next to him swung shut of its own accord. The woman drove fast and well.
He thought he'd recognized a Mercedes-Benz, a genuine racing car indeed, very
costly, capable of 100K/h and more. At present they were doing something like
40 k/h, passing on the right or the left every other auto, nearly missing two
or three fiacres, and several charabancs here and there. Finally taking his
eyes off the paving stones swallowed dup by their tyres, he turned his
attention to his enemy, examining her out of the corner of his eye. He had
time to note the ample cape of black wool, concealing the standard black
coverall, but the masked face was visible under a broad-brimmed felt hat,
before the woman pulled up short again by the kerb, holding out her left arm
to prevent him from pitching forward into the windscreen.

But soon the helpful arm was less accommodating; it withdrew with a circular
motion and the gloved hand that emerged from beneath the cape gently took the
tip one of his finger between her own gloved thumb and forefinger. What was
she going to do? He sat paralyzed with fear, knowing that any resistance was
useless and resigned in advance to submitting to her terrifying skills. From
behind her mask the eyes of La Mystérieuse were reassuring as, for the first
time that evening, she spoke: "You're coming with me, little inspector... Tom
Thumb and his little pebbles is not my favourite story...You and your ransom
are coming home with me, but first you must sleep for a while...

Suddenly a flash of pain seemed to travel in an instant from the tip of the
finger she was crushing in the pincers of her glove. The pain rose a,d rose
tille it simply overwhelmed his brain. He had scarcely time to be
frightened... before he sank into darkness.

When he came to his senses, the first thing he knew was that his chest and
shoulders were being given a vigorous massage. Opening his eyes, he saw one
gloved hand pressed to his chest, accompanying the rise and fall of his lungs,
while he could feel the other against his neck, bending his head as far
forward as it could comfortably go. Where was he? He was seated in a
comfortable armchair with presumably La Mystérieuse standing behind him.
Contrary to what he had expected, they were in middle-class parlour,
comfortable-looking enough but quite ordinary in every respect.

"Back in the land of the living, and fresh as a daisy! But I want you to know,
inspector, that the nerve pinch I used on you, and which merely made you sleep
awhile, would have been quite fatal had I chosen to maintain the pressure
another ten or twenty seconds. And I know many more little parlour tricks like
that... I'm a very frightening woman, don't you think?" She seemed to stop and
think. She had removed her hat and cape and was standing before him now in her
cat-burglar's outfit, the breathtaking curves once again insolently displayed
beneath the black silk sheath.

"For reasons which for the moment are no one's business but mine, I have
decided to kepp you a prisoner here for a while..."

He tried to rise and discovered he could not: wrists and ankles were attached
to the chair by thin metal collars padded with leather. La Mystérieuse touched
a hidden spring. The four collars sprung open and he was free. He put his hand
to his mouth and sucked the martyred finger: it was very sore. "This chair
will detain you only when I am out. Otherwise you shall have the freedom of
the room. But I know that you know that any attempt to escape in my presence
is quite unthinkable... isn't it?" And the move was so quick he didn't see it
coming: she grasped the four-fingers of his hand in one gloved fist, squeezed
them painfully with a vigorous twist that forced him to kneel ridiculously at
the woman's feet, involountarily staring down at the supple boots, so soft and
yet capable of inflicting such terrible damage on the male anatomy, as he had
had occasion to attest. "So no tricks, inspector, I wouldn't want to have to
really hurt you." She released him and backed away. He stood up straight
again.

"I've counted the money and it's all there. I shall be able to concentrate on
my good works, and I freely admit that you were a great help to me... In part,
this little visit to my home is by way of a reward! You are surprised? And yet
I speak the absolute truth. You must have thought a great deal about me, have
you not? After all, I am quite an exceptional woman, am I not? You must have
often wondered ‘Where does she live? How does she live? What is her home
like?' You may also have wondered..." and she lowered her voice suggestively,
" how does she make love, does she make love at all, does she do it with men
or with women... or with dogs?" The voice was almost inaudible now. But the
expression on the inspector's face was one of undeniable acquiescence. She
laughed boisterously and turning her back on him, headed for a sideboard which
held bottles and glasses. He knew that turning his back on him was a gesture
of defiance. "If you want to try your luck, now is the time..." she taunted.
But Aimé Lécoux knew whom he was dealing with, he had learnt to dread this
woman's uncanny jiu-jitsu prowess and made no attempt to move.

"And so long as you are here," she pursued her thought, "I'll be able to keep
my eye on you, won't I? I'll know you're not putting your nose in my business"
and she laughed again. She seemed to be enjoying herself immensely. She still
had her back to him, methodically filling two glasses.

Up till now, the inspector had said nothing; the situation had left him
literally speechless. Finally, however, he ventured a question: "How long...?"

"Do I plan to keep you here? Ah, that is the question. Not long probably, but
perhaps longer than that. It all depends."

"On what?"

"On you... but on something else, as well."

At that point, La Mystérieuse caught sight of a clock on the mantle piece and
her manner changed. "But it's late and I must leave you. Take your seat
again."

Instinctively his body stiffened: against all good sense, his male pride
welled up within him. Seeing him hesitate, however bruefly, La Mystérieuse
wasted no time in empty threats: she clapped her open hand to the man's belly
and through the thin shirting her fingers clamped onto the tender skin like
the talon of a bird of prey, producing a terrible, burning pain. The man
screamed pitifully, begging her to let him go, tugging uselessly at her wrist,
whilst she backed him up against the chair, where he had no choice but to sit,
accentuated the excruciating pressure further still till he obediently lay his
hands on the armrests: there was a click and the steel collars closed. She
relaxed her diabolical grip and seized his anklebones in such a way that
shooting pain momentarily paralyzed both legs till the ankle-collars too
snapped into place. After which she had the kindness to give the tormented
flesh on his belly a brief massage which to his amazement dissipated the
burning pain in seconds. She faced him, hands on hips. "I will tolerate no
resistance, not the slightest sign of rebellion, is that perfectly clear,
Inspector? "Yes," he muttered. She took his jaw between thumb and index
finger, forcing him to look up at her and gazed down with her imperturbable
eyes; he sensed that the firm pressure which her leather clad digits exerted
on his cheeks and gums could quickly become more than just uncomfortable.
"Yes, who?" "Yes, Madame!" he articulated with difficulty, because of the way
she held his jaw. She let him go then and backed away. "Mademoiselle" she
corrected him. And without further ado, turned on her heels and vanished
behind a heavy portiere. He heard a door open and close, then nothing at all.
He deduced the room must be sound-proofed.