9
Pierre Plantard
‘This is indeed a mystery,’ I remarked. ‘What do you imagine that it means?’ Sir Arthur Conan Doyle, ‘A Scandal in Bohemia’
The office of Alpha Galates was on the first floor of a rundown two-storey building, above a bookshop on a narrow and unfashionable street.
The rain had dried up that morning, leaving in its wake a cold autumnal day with clouds streaking the skies. The streets were busy and Rahn had slipped easily in and out of the crowds, though he guessed he was still being followed. In truth, he knew it was possibly dangerous to try to lose his ‘tail’. After all, he had been warned that he had a ball and chain around his leg and everyone seemed to know his every move. Even so, he had stopped now and again to look through a shop window, hoping to catch a glimpse of whoever was following him in its reflection. He had seen nothing amiss – the man was obviously a professional.
He took a winding stairway to a dirty hallway and followed the numbers until he came to a battered door. He checked his pocket watch for the time; he only had two hours before his train. Waiting for him on the other side of the door could be another way to Hell, he didn’t know. He knocked and waited. He heard shuffling sounds and the door opened a little, revealing one dark, hooded eye, a sunken cheek, half a long nose and a couple of full lips.
‘C’est quoi?’ the mouth said, annoyed.
‘Vincent Varas?’
‘Qui veut savoir?’
‘Otto Rahn,’ he said, ‘I telephoned you yesterday?’
The door closed. Rahn heard the chain. It opened again to reveal the tall young man.
‘Entrez . . . entrez . . .’ he said, his eyes furtive and his manner nervous.
Rahn’s first impression of the apartment was that it smelt of burnt toast and sardines. He imagined a kitchen full of dirty plates and half-drunk cups of coffee. He could also hear soft music coming through the walls and it lent an atmosphere of nostalgia and decadence. He was led to a sitting room that was largely empty except for a table burdened by a typewriter and wads of paper. More piles of paper littered the floor and Rahn had to step over them. The young man – long, gangling and wet-eyed – came to stand before the table, wearing a vaguely disconcerted frown on his oily face. The pale light coming through the window fell on his emaciated frame, catching the plume of cigarette smoke through which his little bloodshot eyes squinted. He removed a pile of papers from a torn armchair and gestured for Rahn to sit, and in the meantime dragged a stool closer.
‘Well?’ Rahn said to him, feeling the onset of a headache and the desire to be out of this place sooner rather than later. ‘As I explained on the telephone, I don’t have much time . . . my train leaves shortly and I must be on it.’
The young man stubbed out his cigarette in a cracked saucer full of old butts and ashes and looked at Rahn with a cursory frown. ‘Forgive me, monsieur, but what exactly did De Mengel say to you about Le Serpent Rouge?’
‘I didn’t speak to De Mengel,’ Rahn confessed, feeling suddenly on the back foot. ‘My superiors tell me it’s an important and rare grimoire and I am to acquire it for the Führer.’
There was a nod of consideration.
Rahn grew annoyed. He didn’t know why he’d come here, and he was of the mind to leave soon if the man didn’t reveal whatever he knew. ‘De Mengel told my superiors that you have information on the grimoire.’
‘Gaston De Mengel says many things,’ the young man replied with an irritating arrogance. He offered Rahn a cigarette from a crushed packet. He was smoking Black Russians – expensive.
‘I’ve given them up,’ Rahn said.
‘Pourquoi?’
‘The superior race must keep itself healthy . . . Himmler’s orders,’ he said, but his sarcasm was lost on the boy, who nodded appreciatively.
Rahn shifted in his chair and tried to keep the impatience out of his voice. ‘Look, can you help me or not?’
The young man struck a match, lit the end of the cigarette and puffed until it glowed. He was stretching the moment out, making resolves and breaking them in the space of seconds.
‘That depends,’ he said finally.
‘On what? Do you want money?’
There was a wide smile. ‘Money? Look around, do I look like the sort of man who covets material goods, Monsieur Rahn?’
Where did he get the money for those cigarettes?
Plantard leant in. ‘Truth is, monsieur, what I know is more unhealthy than this.’ He took a drag of the cigarette and let the smoke out, looking at Rahn. ‘It is unhealthy not just for the body, but also for the soul.’