The Horror on the Links

by Seabury Quinn

  “Now, such a thing was not likely, I admit; you, Sergent, and you, too, Friend Trowbridge, will say it was not possible; but such is not the case. In certain circumstances it is possible for that which we see with our eyes to cast no shadow in a mirror. Let that point wait a moment; we have other evidence to consider first.

  “When the young man told us of the count’s prowess in battle, of his incomparable ferocity, I began to believe that which I had at first disbelieved, and when he told us the count was a Hungarian, I began to believe more than ever.

  “I met the count, as you will remember, and I took his hand in mine. Parbleu, it was like a hand with no palm—it had hairs on both sides of it! You, too, Friend Trowbridge, remarked on that phenomenon.

  “While I talked with him I managed to maneuver him before a mirror. Morbleu, the man was as if he had not been; I could see my own face smiling at me where I knew I should have seen the reflection of his shoulder!

  “Now, attend me; The Sûreté General—what you call the Police Headquarters—of Paris is not like your English and American bureaus. All facts, no matter however seemingly absurd, which come to that office are carefully noted down for future reference. Among other histories I have read in the archives of that office was that of one Baron Lajos Czuczron of Transylvania, whose actions had once been watched by our secret agents.

  “This man was rich and favored beyond the common run of Hungarian petty nobles, but he was far from beloved by his peasantry. He was known as cruel, wicked and implacable, and no one could be found who had ever one kind word to say for him.

  “Half the countryside suspected him of being a loup-garou, or werewolf, the others credited a local legend that a woman of his family had once in the olden days taken a demon to husband and that he was the offspring of that unholy union. According to the story, the progeny of this wicked woman lived like an ordinary man for one hundred years, then died on the stroke of the century unless his vitality was renewed by drinking the blood of a slaughtered virgin!

  “Absurd? Possibly. An English intelligence office would have said ‘bally nonsense’ if one of its agents had sent in such a report. An American bureau would have labeled the report as being the sauce-of-the apple; but consider this fact: In six hundred years there was no single record of a Baron Czuczron having died. Barons grew old—old to the point of death—but always there came along a new baron, a man in the prime of life, not a youth, to take the old baron’s place, nor could any say when the old baron had died or where his body had been laid.

  “Now, I had been told that a man under a curse—the werewolf, the vampire, or any other thing in man’s shape, who lives more than his allotted time by virtue of wickedness—can not cast a shadow in a mirror; also that those accursed ones have hair in the palms of their hands. Eh bien, with this foreknowledge, I engaged this man who called himself Count Czerny in conversation concerning Transylvania. Parbleu, the fellow denied all knowledge of the country. He denied it with more force than was necessary. ‘You are a liar, Monsieur le Comte,’ I tell him, but I say it to myself. Even yet, however, I do not think what I think later.

  “Then came the case of the young Eckhart. He loses blood, he can not say how or why, but Friend Trowbridge and I find a queer mark on his body. I think to me, ‘if, perhaps, a vampire—a member of that accursed tribe who leave their graves by night and suck the blood of the living—were here, that would account for this young man’s condition. But where would such a being come from? It is not likely.’

  “Then I meet that old man, the one you call Indian John. He tells me much of the history of this town in the early days, and he tells me something more. He tells of a man, an old, old man, who has paid him much money to go to a certain grave—the grave of a reputed witch—in the old cemetery and dig from about it a growth of wild garlic. Garlic, I know, is a plant intolerable to the vampire. He can not abide it. If it is planted on his grave he can not pass it.

  “I ask myself, ‘Who would want such a thing to be, and why? But I have no answer; only, I know, if a vampire have been confined to that grave by planted garlic, then liberated when that garlic is taken away, it would account for the young Eckhart’s strange sickness.

  “Tiens, Friend Trowbridge and I visit that grave, and on its tombstone we read a verse which makes me believe the tenant of that grave may be a vampire. We interview the good minister of the church and learn that another man, an old, old man, have also inquired about that strange grave. ‘Who have done this? I ask me; but even yet I have no definite answer to my question.

  “As we rush to the Norman house to see young Eckhart I stop at an Italian green grocer’s and ask for fresh garlic, for I think perhaps we can use it to protect the young Eckhart if it really is a vampire which is troubling him. Parbleu, some man, an old, old man, have what you Americans call ‘cornered’ the available supply of garlic. ‘Cordieu,’ I tell me, ‘this old man, he constantly crosses our trail! Also he is a very great nuisance.’

  “The Italian tell me the garlic was sent to a house in Rupleysville, so I have an idea where this interfering ol’ rascal may abide. But at that moment I have greater need to see our friend Eckhart than to ask further question of the Italian. Before I go, however, I tell that shopkeeper that his garlic customer has the evil eye. Parbleu, Monsieur Garlic-Buyer you will have no more dealings with that Italian! He knows what he knows.

  “When we arrive at the Norman house we find young Eckhart in great trouble, and a black serving maid tells of a strange-looking woman who bit him. Also, we find toothmarks on his breast. ‘The vampire woman, Sarah, is, in very truth, at large,’ I tell me, and so I hasten to the cemetery to make her fast to her grave with a wooden stake, for, once he is staked down, the vampire can no longer roam. He is finished.

  “Friend Trowbridge will testify he saw blood on the stake driven into a grave dug nearly three hundred years ago. Is it not so, mon ami?”

  I nodded assent, and he took up his narrative:

  “Why this old man should wish to liberate the vampire woman, I know not; certain it is, one of that grisly guild, or one closely associated with it, as this ‘Count Czerny’ undoubtedly was, can tell when another of the company is in the vicinity, and I doubt not he did this deed for pure malice and deviltry.

  “However that may be, Friend Trowbridge tells me he have seen the count, and that he seems to have aged greatly. The man who visited the clergyman and the man who bought the garlic was also much older than the count as we knew him. ‘Ah ha, he is coming to the end of his century,’ I tell me; ‘now look out for devilment, Jules de Grandin. Certainly, it is sure to come.’

  “And then, my Sergeant, come you with your tale of Mademoiselle Norman’s disappearance, and I, too, think perhaps she has run away from home voluntarily, of her own free will, until you say the Italian shopkeeper recognized the old man who accosted her as one who has the evil eye. Now what old man, save the one who bought the garlic and who lives at Rupleysville, would that Italian accuse of the evil eye? Pardieu, has he not already told you the same man once bought his garlic? But yes. The case is complete.

  “The girl has disappeared, an old, old man has accosted her; an old, old man who was so strong he could overcome a policeman; the count is nearing his century mark when he must die like other men unless he can secure the blood of a virgin to revivify him. I am more than certain that the count and baron are one and the same and that they both dwell at Rupleysville. Voilà, we go to Rupleysville, and we arrive there not one little minute too soon. N’est-ce-pas, mes amis?”

  “Sure,” Costello agreed, rising and holding out his hand in farewell, “you’ve got th’ goods, doc. No mistake about it.”

  To me, as I helped him with his coat in the hall, the detective confided, “An’ he only had one shot o’ licker all evenin’! Gosh, doc, if one drink could fix me up like that I wouldn’t care how much prohibition we had!”

  The Blood-Flower

  “ALLO,” JULES DE GRANDIN seized the receiver fr
om the office telephone before the echo of the tinkling bell had ceased, “who is it, please? But of course, Mademoiselle, you may speak with Dr. Trowbridge.” He passed the instrument to me and busied himself with a third unsuccessful attempt to ignite the evil-smelling French cigarette with which he insisted on fumigating the room.

  “Yes?” I queried, placing the receiver to my ear.

  “This is Miss Ostrander, Dr. Trowbridge,” a well modulated voice informed me. “Mrs. Evander’s nurse, you know.”

  “Yes?” I repeated, a little sharply, annoyed at being called by an ordinary case after an onerous day. “What is it?”

  “I—I don’t quite know, sir.” She laughed the short, semi-hysterical laugh of an embarrassed woman. “She’s acting very queerly. She—she’s—oh, my, there it goes again, sir! Please come over right away; I’m afraid she’s becoming delirious!” And with that she hung up, leaving me in a state of astounded impatience.

  “Confound the woman!” I scolded as I prepared to slip into my overcoat. “Why couldn’t she have hung on thirty seconds more and told me what the matter was?”

  “Eh, what is it, my friend?” de Grandin gave up his attempt to make the cigarette burn and regarded me with one of his fixed, unwinking stares. “You are puzzled, you are in trouble; can I assist you?”

  “Perhaps,” I replied. “There’s a patient of mine, a Mrs. Evander, who’s been suffering from a threatened leukemia—I’ve administered Fowler’s solution and arsenic trioxide and given her bed-rest treatment for the past week. It looked as if we had the situation pretty well in hand, but …” I repeated Miss Ostrander’s message.

  “Ah?” he murmured, musingly. “‘There it goes again,’ she did say? What, I wonder, was ‘it’; a cough, a convulsion, or—who can say? Let us hasten, my friend. Parbleu, she does intrigue me, that Mademoiselle Ostrander with her so cryptic ‘There it goes again!’”

  Lights were gleaming through the storm from the windows of the Evander house as we came to a stop before its wide veranda. A servant, half-clothed and badly frightened, let us in and ushered us on tiptoe to the upper story chamber where the mistress of the establishment lay sick.

  “What’s wrong?” I demanded as I entered the sickroom, de Grandin at my heels.

  A glance at the patient reassured me. She lay back on a little pile of infant pillows, her pretty blonde hair trickling in stray rivulets of gold from the confines of her lace sleeping cap, her hand, almost as white as the linen itself, spread restfully on the Madeira counterpane.

  “Humph!” I exclaimed, turning angrily to Miss Ostrander. “Is this what you called me out in the rain to see?”

  The nurse raised a forefinger quickly to her lips and motioned toward the hall with her eyes. “Doctor,” she said in a whisper when we stood outside the sickroom door, “I know you’ll think me silly, but—but it was positively ghastly!”

  “Tiens, Mademoiselle,” de Grandin cut in, “I pray you be more explicit: First you tell Friend Trowbridge that something—we know not what—goes again, now you do inform us that something is ghastly. Pardieu, you have my sheep—non, non, how do you say?—my goat!”

  In spite of herself the girl laughed at the tragic face he turned to her, but she recovered her gravity quickly.

  “Last night,” she went on, still in a whisper, “and the night before, just at twelve, a dog howled somewhere in the neighborhood. I couldn’t place the sound, but it was one of those long, quavering howls, almost human. Positively you might have mistaken it for the cry of a little child in pain, at first.”

  De Grandin tweaked first one, then the other end of his trimly waxed blond mustache. “And it was the sleepless dog’s lament which went again, and which was so ghastly, Mademoiselle?” he inquired solicitously.

  “No!” the nurse exploded with suppressed vehemence and heightened color. “It was Mrs. Evander, sir. Night before last, when the beast began baying, she stirred in her sleep—turned restlessly for a moment, then went back to sleep. When it howled the second time, a little nearer the house, she half sat up, and made a queer little growling noise in her throat. Then she slept. Last night the animal was howling louder and longer, and Mrs. Evander seemed more restless and made odd noises more distinctly. I thought the dog was annoying her, or that she might be having a nightmare, so I got her a drink of water; but when I tried to give it to her, she snarled at me!”

  “Eh bien, but this is of interest,” de Grandin commented. “She did snarl at you, you say?”

  “Yes, sir. She didn’t wake up when I touched her on the shoulder; just turned her head toward me and showed her teeth and growled. Growled like a bad-tempered dog.”

  “Yes? And then?”

  “Tonight the dog began howling a few minutes earlier, five or ten minutes before midnight, perhaps, and it seemed to me his voice was much stronger. Mrs. Evander had the same reaction she had the other two nights at first, but suddenly she sat bolt-upright in bed, rolled her head from side to side, and drew back her lips and growled, then she began snapping at the air, like a dog annoyed by a fly. I did my best to quiet her, but I didn’t like to go too near—I was afraid, really—and all at once the dog began howling again, right in the next yard, it seemed, and Mrs. Evander threw back her bedclothes, knelt up in bed and answered him!”

  “Answered him?” I echoed in stupefaction.

  “Yes, doctor, she threw back her head and howled—long quavering howls, just like his. At first they were low, but they grew louder and higher till the servants heard them, and James, the butler, came to the door to see what the matter was. Poor fellow, he was nearly scared out of his wits when he saw her.”

  “And then … ?” I began.

  “Then I called you. Right while I was talking to you, the dog began baying again, and Mrs. Evander answered him. That was what I meant”—she turned to de Grandin—“when I said ‘There it goes again.’ I had to hang up before I could explain to you, Dr. Trowbridge, for she had started to crawl out of bed toward the window, and I had to run and stop her.”

  “But why didn’t you tell me this yesterday, or this afternoon when I was here?” I demanded.

  “I didn’t like to, sir. It all seemed so crazy, so utterly impossible, especially in the daytime, that I was afraid you’d think I’d been asleep on duty and dreamed it all; but now that James has seen it, too …”

  Outside in the rain-drenched night there suddenly rose a wail, long-drawn, pulsating, doleful as the cry of an abandoned soul. “O-o-o—o-o-o-o—o-o-o—o-o-o-o!” it rose and fell, quavered and almost died away, then resurged with increased force. “O-o-o—o-o-o-o—o-o-o—o-o-o-o!”

  “Hear it?” the nurse cried, her voice thin-edged with excitement and fear.

  Again, “O-o-o—o-o-o-o—o-o-o—o-o-o-o!” like the echo of the howls outside came an answering cry from the sickroom beyond the door.

  Miss Ostrander dashed into the room, de Grandin and I close behind her.

  The dainty white counterpane had been thrown back. Mrs. Evander, clad only in her Georgette nightrobe and bed cap, had crossed the floor to the window and flung up the sash. Already, the wind-whipped rain was beating in upon her as she leaned across the sill, one pink sole toward us, one little white foot on the window-ledge, preparatory to jumping.

  “Mon Dieu, seize her!” de Grandin shrieked, and, matching command with performance leaped across the room, grasped her shoulders in his small, strong hands, and bore her backward as she flexed the muscles of her legs to hurl herself into the yard below.

  For a moment she fought like a tigress, snarling, scratching, even snapping at us with her teeth, but Miss Ostrander and I overbore her and thrust her into bed, drawing the covers over her and holding them down like a strait-jacket against her furious struggles.

  De Grandin leaned across the window-sill, peering out into the stormy darkness. “Aroint thee, accursed of God!” I heard him shout into the wind as he drew the sash down, snapped the catch fast and turned again to the room.

 
“Ah?” he approached the struggling patient and bent over her, staring intently. “A grain and a half of morphine in her arm, if you please, Friend Trowbridge. The dose is heavy for a non-addict, but”—he shrugged his shoulders—“it is necessaire that she sleep, this poor one. So! That is better.

  “Mademoiselle,” he regarded Miss Ostrander with his wide-eyed stare, “I do not think she will be thus disturbed in the day, but I most strongly urge that hereafter you administer a dose of one-half grain of codeine dissolved in eighty parts of water each night not later than half-past ten. Dr. Trowbridge will write the prescription.

  “Friend Trowbridge,” he interrupted himself, “where, if at all, is Madame’s husband, Monsieur Evander?”

  “He’s gone to Atlanta on a business trip,” Miss Ostrander supplied. “We expect him back tomorrow.”

  “Tomorrow? Zut, that is too bad!” de Grandin exclaimed. “Eh bien, with you Americans it is always the business. Business before happiness; cordieu, business before the safety of those you love!

  “Mademoiselle, you will please keep in touch with Dr. Trowbridge and me at all times, and when that Monsieur Evander does return from his business trip, please tell him that we desire to see him soon—at once, right away, immediately.

  “Come, Friend Trowbridge—bonne nuit, Mademoiselle.”

  “I SAY, DR. TROWBRIDGE,” NILES Evander flung angrily into my consulting room, “what’s the idea of keeping my wife doped like this? Here I just got back from a trip to the South last night and rushed out to the house to see her before she went to sleep, and that dam’ nurse said she’d given her a sleepin’ powder and couldn’t waken her. I don’t like it, I tell you, and I won’t have it! I told the nurse that if she gave her any dope tonight she was through, and that goes for you, too!” He glared defiantly at me.

  De Grandin, sunk in the depths of a great chair with a copy of de Gobineau’s melancholy Lovers of Kandahar, glanced up sharply, then consulted the watch strapped to his wrist. “It is a quarter of eleven,” he announced apropos of nothing, laying down the elegant blue-and-gold volume and rising from his seat.