Chapter 13 - Dark Gatherings
Ostend, Belgium
(Continued)

Hours later, Holmes and Poirot had arrived at a port. Poirot had done his utmost best in the cart to clean his shoes and dust himself off. Though most would have found it annoying, Holmes couldn't help but feel quite amused. If he's as good at arresting people as he is at keeping clean we'll have this case cracked within the hour, he thought to himself.

The port was secluded as it was so late, and if there was anyone around, they did not make their presence known. The driver refused to remain for any longer. His horse was tired and the hour was late. Holmes had to use the last of his money, as well as Poirot's, to pay the driver. He then went on his way with a gruff nod and paid them no more attention as he hurried along, eager to get away from these strange goings-on.

Holmes and Poirot headed over to a source of white light that was piercing the heavy shadows. It was coming from the unusual machine that had come to a stop. The light seemed to illuminate the machine in cold and frightening air. "Let's hide on the other side. If not, we'll be seen," Holmes said. They were sure to stay out of range of the beams.

The minutes succeeded one another slowly. An hour passed and there was no change at all. The black-haired man was leaning against this absurd machine, no doubt waiting, and talked to the other man, Robert, who was stood straight and seemed a little more patient. Neither Holmes nor Poirot could hear what was being said. What they did hear seemed more like small talk than anything valuable. Holmes listened anyway, hoping for a clue.

When a relatively large boat pulled in, Holmes had to stop himself sighing in relief. By now it was the dead of night and the English detective was struggling to repress relentless yawns. The Belgian policeman was also far from impressed at missing out on his sleep. It exhausted his little grey cells which provided him success and a degree of fame in his work.

"Look," Holmes whispered. His face carried a weighted and grim expression.

Poirot did as the Englishman asked. His blood turned cold upon seeing who stepped off the large metallic boat. It was none other than Fantômas. Fantômas- the infamous assassin! As soon as his presence was noted the atmosphere darkened. He seemed to draw the life and energy out of everything there; his acrimonious manner could intimidate even the strongest of hearts. They only recognised him because of one thing: he was wearing that infamous black mask.

"That's all we need," Holmes grumbled. When Fantômas began to speak to the two men who were waiting, Holmes and Poirot grew silent, straining their ears to listen.
"Nyctalope, where are the others?" Fantômas demanded gruffly.
"There has been no sign. Robur told me he had received a message a few days ago. They should be here within the hour if they have not been delayed further," the black-haired man, Nyctalope said. Holmes looked closely at this 'Nyctalope' unsure of what this name meant to the man. Whatever it meant, he seemed quite undisturbed at the notorious assassin who stood before him. Sherlock could only admire his courage.

Fantômas came close to him. "I received the same message. However, as you can see, Lupin is not here. So where is he?" Fantômas grumbled. The young men did not seem overly intimidated, although Robert seemed to tense.

Poirot turned and saw Holmes' jaw drop and his eyes grow wide. Lupin! Poirot hoped it was not the Lupin he was thinking of- but it couldn't be. Arsène Lupin would never join some organised gang like this- especially not with the likes of Fantômas. Lupin was against killing. He and Fantômas were as different as could be. He had to be mistaken. It had to be a different Lupin.

As though right on cue, another one of those black moving carriages appeared. After stopping near to the other machine, a man of slim and athletic build exited it from the back door. He was an albino, and he seemed similar to a thief Poirot had seen before. Monsieur Zenith , he thought to himself. So there was a thief in this mysterious gang? Zenith was stood in his normal impeccable attire with black trousers with small vertical stripes running down them. He had a clean white shirt with a white bow tie and a blazer jacket, which was was plain black, though the collar was also striped to match his trousers.

"Fantômas, Nyctalope, Monsieur Champeau. Apologies for our lack of punctuality. We had to go around any towns and so we took longer than expected," he explained. He perched on a wooden crate beside the car, crossing his legs over once he was comfortable. He took out his gold cigarette case from his pocket, and lit himself a cigarette. He then began to puff away, sending the heavy grey smoke into the air. It all contributed to the aberrant aura that surrounded him.
"Yes, we'd heard you'd had a change of plan. You still made quite good time in getting here. These cars are very impressive it seems," Nyctalope answered, his voice firm and sonorous. Holmes was intrigued at seeing such seemingly inexperienced people working alongside such legendary figures. What were they all doing?

The door at the front of this… car, opened revealing the man that Holmes dreaded seeing so much. There he stood, bold as brass. He seemed to radiate with a mysterious and yet non- threatening air. Lupin's energetic figure seemed to overtake Fantômas's dark and sinister feeling that he had created. Holmes felt his heart lighten at the sight. It actually reassured him. Reassured to see a thief. What is this day coming to? He thought to himself.

Lupin was not dressed as finely as he usually was. His blazer had been removed, as had his bow tie. The top button was undone and he had rolled up his sleeves. Sherlock assumed it was easier for him to drive the car like that instead of feeling restrained. "Bonjour, Messieurs. I hope the paintings have been safely deposited?" he asked as he put his sleeves back down.

Fantômas nodded. Lupin grinned with his eyes flashing with excitement.

"How is the captain, Monsieur Lupin?" Robert asked.

"See for yourself," Lupin smiled, opening the back door of the machine. He then went to the other side to retrieve his blazer and put it on. Robert went forwards and looked at a Sikh man of Indian origin, who was dressed in fine blue clothes, who was asleep in the back. After a moment or two, he moved away from him, content with his findings. It was only once he moved that Holmes could see the resting man's hands were bound with rope. That was unexpected. A prisoner. Was this a trade?

"Come, we ought to leave before we draw any attention to ourselves. I expect Nemo will be coming around soon," Lupin said.
"Do not speak as though we were the ones who were late," Fantômas growled.
"I said nothing of the sort, Monsieur. I know we are late- over a week late in fact. But need I remind you how we came to be so far behind schedule in the first place?" Lupin countered calmly.

"Nemo... Why have I heard that name before? My brother mentioned him. He's one of ours..." Holmes muttered to Poirot. Poirot was about to speak, but the two heads that were speaking whipped around to the direction the two men were in. Holmes and Poirot ducked down, hopeful that the darkness would conceal them. Lupin and Fantômas looked at each other and muttered something inaudible.

"Damnation. We need to move," Holmes whispered as Nyctalope approached them.

"Can you see anything, Nyctalope?" Lupin asked, slowly making his way back to the car.
The two men held their breath for fear of being heard. Nyctalope stood still and looked ahead in the direction of the law enforcers. "I'm... not sure," he admitted.
"You can see better than any of us," Fantômas remarked dryly.
"In the dark, Fantômas, not through objects... I'll go look," Nyctalope answered.

With a sigh, Nyctalope began to creep towards them again. Holmes and Poirot began to weave their way through boxes and barrels, ducking down to avoid being seen. Poirot spotted Holmes drew his gun from his pocket, readying himself for conflict.

The shuffling of their feet caused Nyctalope to pick up his pace. He was closing in on them. Holmes led on into the warehouse behind them, trying to find a hiding spot in which they could wait. The darkness loomed around them, making it almost impossible to see anything. Poirot kept close to the detective, trying to find a doorway of some sorts. It became clear that the two had made their way into the warehouse and that there was no sign of a secondary door.

It was clear to Holmes that this man who was in close pursuit was likely a runner of noteworthy speed and exceptional endurance. That meant hiding would be their only option. He didn't like it, but what choice did they have? Nyctalope was a new name to him. Had Lupin followed them he would have known what he was up against. But now, he didn't have a clue, save for the darkness was apparently not their ally.

After meandering through aisles of boxes, crates, barrels, and sacks, the two men found themselves completely trapped. They felt around, trying to keep moving. Holmes looked around, trying to find any light to navigate. The two were about to double back when Holmes heard a ferocious shuffling, a muffled shout followed by a grunt. Holmes spun around, gun at the ready.

Silence crept back into the darkness. Holmes froze and listened, he could hear breathing, but he didn't know who it belonged to. "Poirot?" he whispered. No reply. He was about to call out again, but the quiet footsteps of the young man silenced him.

Quickly, he stretched his free hand out and fumbled around for a hiding spot. There was a light thud, which Holmes assumed was him knocking something over. He found a bit of a gap between two barrels. He tucked himself in as far as he could, before holding his breath. The footsteps stopped right beside him. But where was Poirot? Holmes didn't dare shoot in case it was the wrong man. If he stretched out his hand, he could have seized the man by the leg. Nyctalope stood so close and was even facing him. Holmes held his breath as best he could, which was harder after he had hurried to hide.

"On your feet, Monsieur Holmes. Hands up and drop the gun. You aren't the only one armed," Nyctalope warned. Holmes was right, it was not Poirot. However, instead of doing as ordered, he sat there, perplexed at the idea that this man could recognise him in the dark. Of course, it made sense now that he thought about it. Nyctalopia was the inability to see in dim light, though it sounded as though it was the opposite. Nyctalope could see clear as day in the dark!

"Up!"

Slowly, Holmes began to stand up, gripping his revolver. He felt something press into his chest; the barrel of a gun. "Drop it," Nyctalope ordered again. Holmes tensed his jaw before letting the weapon slip from his fingers and raising his hands up to his head. The gun fell to the floor with a clatter. There was no point in fighting yet. He could hardly see the man in front of him, let alone try to overwhelm someone who was far stronger.

The moment the gun hit the floor, he was seized by the arm and dragged out of the building. Sherlock winced as his arm was twisted behind him and held in place. He could feel the cold metal against the side of his neck. It was definitely a gun, a Browning by the looks of it as his surroundings became lighter. Nyctalope wordlessly forced Holmes out of the warehouse and back to where the other mysterious men were waiting.

(*A few minutes earlier*)

Poirot had done his utmost best to stay close to Holmes, hoping he could protect the great English Detective. Yet, as they waded through the heavy darkness, trying to seek safety, Poirot knew that this would not go according to plan.

When Holmes abruptly stopped, Poirot knew they had hit a dead end. Poirot turned around to make a desperate attempt to double back, only to bump into someone as he did.

Before he could even register what was happening, a hand clamped around his mouth and he felt an arm wrestling him away. He tried to shout for help as he was dragged down on the other side of a wall formed by the cargo. Poirot grunted as he fell down with a quiet thud. He ended up facing the makeshift wooden wall that separated him from Holmes. He felt a gun press against his back. He didn't dare move.

"Poirot?" Holmes whispered, straining to see in the suffocating darkness. The grip around Poirot's mouth tightened- a clear sign for him not to make any noise. He did not want to tempt the armed man who held him with such vigour. But why had Sherlock not been able to find this small path which would enable him to hide? Was it because he was looking for him?

Footsteps sounded, which must have belonged to the man who was chasing them. Poirot felt the man's grip tighten again, though only slightly and on his nose. It seemed he was telling the policeman to quieten his breathing. Holmes continued to try and hide. Poirot brought his hands up to his face to try to dislodge the man but only succeeded in elbowing the wooden crates, making a loud thump. Was this stranger going to suffocate him? As long as the man did not tighten his grip further, he would still be able to breathe. His other concern was how the man was ruining his moustache.

Poirot found himself holding his breath as Nyctalope caught Holmes. He listened to the conversation on the other side of the cargo, at which point the man slackened his grip, perhaps out of fear he was suffocating him. Holmes was led away, at gunpoint, back to the two machines.

After a few seconds, the man began to give instructions. "Do not call out," he whispered and took his hand away from Poirot's mouth. Poirot inhaled deeply and shuddered but did not speak, still very aware of the gun.

"Who are you?" Poirot dared to whisper. His fingers traced the outline of his moustache to ensure it was not misshapened by the struggle.
"Sorry about that. I'm on your side, believe it or not. You can sit up now, it's quite safe." Although distrusting of the man, Poirot did as suggested. Moonlight illuminated the ground from this side of the wall. Poirot used the light to see the man who had seized him and thus protected him from discovery. He was an older gentleman with a short but well-trimmed beard. He was wearing sandy-coloured clothes and had a hat on his head- he was dressed as a hunter.

"My name is Allan Quatermain-"
"Monsieur Quatermain… I thought you had died several months ago. I read it in the papers!" Poirot exclaimed.
"Shh, it was a misunderstanding. That's not important for the time being. I need your help to save a friend of mine. Was there a man in the back of one of those Automobiles? Indian fellow, black hair, long beard, possibly in blue?"

The Belgian policeman was surprised at the name he had given those strange machines but nodded at hearing the description of the man. He knew who the famous hunter spoke of at least.

"Good, I need you to point it out to me," Quatermain said.
"But monsieur, what of Mr Holmes? And what was your aim in taking me to begin with?"
"Holmes will be fine. I'll keep an eye on him. There was less chance of me being shot by taking you, and I needed to speak with one of you. I need you to tell me what you can about those men. Come this way," Quatermain explained, leading the baffled policeman onwards.