by Robert Bloch
But I didn't look at these things, and neither did Mosko and neither did Tarelli.
We looked at Rosa, lying on the floor.
Rosa looked back, but she didn't see us, because she had a builet between her eyes.
"Dead!" Tarelli screamed. "You murdered her!" Mosko blinked, but he didn't move.
"How was I to know?" he said. "Thought somebody was busting into the place. What's the big idea, anyhow?"
"Ees no idea. You murder her."
Mosko had his angle figured, now. He sneered down at Tarelli. "You're a fine one to talk, you lousy little crook! I caught you in the act, didn't I — tryin' to steal the works, that's what you was doing. Now get busy and put that machinery back into the scales before I blow your brains out."
Tarelli looked at Mosko, then at Rosa. All at once he shrugged and picked the little box of mirrors and flashing disks from the floor. It was small, but from the way he hefted it I could tell it was heavy. When he held it, it hummed and the mirrors began to slide every which way, and it hurt my eyes to look at it.
Tarelli lifted the box full of science, the box full of magic, whatever it was; the box of secrets, the box of the future. Then he smiled at Mosko and opened his arms.
The box smashed to the floor.
There was a crash, and smoke, and a bright light. Then the noise and smoke and light went away, and there was nothing but old Tarelli standing in a little pile of twisted wires and broken glass and tubes.
Mosko raised his gun. Tarelli stared straight into the muzzle and grinned.
"You murder me, too, now, eh? Go 'head, Meestair Mosko. Rosa dead, the fortunetelling machine dead, too, and I do not weesh to stay alive either. Part of me dies with Rosa, and the rest — the rest was machine."
"Machine?" I whispered under my breath, but he heard me.
"Yes. Part of me went to make machine. What you call the soul."
Mosko tightened his finger on the trigger. "Never mind that, you crummy little rat! You can't scare me with none of that phony talk about magic."
"I don't scare you. You are too stupid to un'rstand. But before I die I tell you one theeng more. I tell your fortune. And your fortune is — death. You die, too, Meestair Mosko. You die, too!"
Like a flash Tarelli stooped and grabbed the wrench from the tools at his feet. He lifted it and swung — and then Mosko let him have it. Three slugs in a row.
Tarelli toppled over next to Rosa. I stepped forward. I didn't know what I'd of done next —jumped Mosko, tried to kill him with his own gun. I was in a daze.
Mosko turned around and barked. "Quit staring," he said. "Help me clean up this mess and get rid of them, fast. Or do you wanna get tied in as an accessory for murder?"
That word, murder —it stopped me cold. Mosko was right. I'd be in on the deal if they found the bodies. Rosa was dead, Tarelli was dead, the scales and their secret was gone.
So I helped Mosko.
I helped him clean up, and I helped him load the bodies into the car. He didn't ask me to go along with him on the trip, and that was good.
Because it gave me a chance, after he'd gone, to go to the phone and ring up the Sheriff. It gave me a chance to tell the Sheriff and the two deputies the whole story when they came out to the tavern early in the morning. It gave me a chance to see Big Pete Mosko s face when he walked in and found us waiting for him there.
They collared him and accused him and he denied everything. He must of hid the bodies in a good safe place, to pull a front act like that, but he never cracked. He denied everything. My story, the murders, the works.
"Look at him," he told the Sheriff, pointing at me. "He's shakin' like a leaf. Outta his head. Everybody knows he's punchy. Why the guy's off his rocker — spilling a yarn like that! Magic scales that tell your fortune! Ever hear of such a thing? Why that alone ought to show you the guy's slug-nutty."
Funny thing is, I could see him getting to them. The Sheriff and his buddies began to give me a look out of the corner of their eyes.
"First of all," said Mosko, "there never was no such person as Tarelli, and he never had a daughter. Look around — see if you can find anything that looks like we had a fight in here, let alone a double murder. All you'll see is the scales here. The rest this guy made up out of his cracked head."
"About those scales — " the Sheriff began.
Mosko walked over and put his hand on the side of the big glass dial on top of the scales, bold as you please. "Yeah, what about the scales?" he asked. "Look 'em over. Just ordinary scales. See for yourself. Drop a penny, out comes a fortune. Regular stuff. Wait, I'll show you."
We all looked at Mosko as he climbed up the scales and fumbled in his pocket for a penny. I saw the deputies edge closer to me, just waiting for the payoff.
And I gulped. Because I knew the magic was gone. Tarelli had put the regular works back into the scales and it was just an ordinary weighing machine, now. Honest weight, no springs. Mosko would dial a fortune and one of the regular printed cards would come out.
We'd hidden the bodies, cleaned up Tarelli's room, removed his clothes, the tools, everything. No evidence left, and nobody would talk except me. And who would believe me, with my crazy guff about a magic scales that told the real future? They'd lock me up in the nuthouse, fast, when Mosko got off the scales with his fortune told for a penny.
I heard the click when the penny dropped. The dial behind the glass went up to 297 pounds. Big fat Mosko turned and grinned at all of us. "You see?" he said.
Then it happened. Maybe he was clumsy, maybe there was oil on the platform, maybe there was a ghost and it pushed him. I don't know. All I know is that Mosko slipped, leaned forward to catch himself, and rammed his head against the glass top.
He gurgled once and went down, with a two-foot razor of glass ripping across his throat. As he fell he tried to smile, and one pudgy hand fumbled at the side of the scales, grabbing out the printed slip that told Big Pete Mosko's fortune.
We had to pry that slip out of his hands — pry it out and read the dead man's future.
Maybe it was just an ordinary scale now, but it told Mosko's fortune, for sure. You figure it out. All I know is what I read, all I know is what Tarelli's scale told Mosko about what was going to happen, and what did happen.
The big white scale stood grinning down on the dead man, and for a minute the cracked and splintered glass sort of fell into a pattern and I had the craziest feeling that I could see Tarelli's face. He was grinning, the scale was grinning, but we didn't grin.
We just pried the little printed slip out of Big Pete Mosko's hand and read his future written there. It was just a single sentence, but it said all there was to be said . . .
YOU ARE GOING ON A LONG JOURNEY
The Head Man
HIS NAME WAS OTTO KRANTZ, and he was the greatest actor in Berlin. And was not Berlin the capital of the entire reasonable world?
He appeared before the public every day in the same drama, in the same role. Now, in 1937, it appeared as though the show might run forever, but no one seemed bored by his performance. And Otto Krantz did his best to keep it this way. He was never satisfied, but continued to rehearse and seek improvements in his part.
Take the matter of costume, for example. Krantz always appeared in evening clothes, but of a very simple cut. This sober garb was a surprising contrast, for many of the minor players wore gaudy uniforms or sought attention by wearing outlandish rags. But Krantz, after much study, realized his modest attire brought him more popular approval than the extravagant outfits of the others.
Again, the other actors were given to impassioned gestures as gaudy as their clothing. They shouted at the audience, they ranted, raved, wept, scowled, went into hysterics.
The spectators were never impressed. They much preferred the business-like approach of Otto Krantz, who said little but acted with the finesse of a master. He never played to the gallery. While on stage, he went through the "business" as if the audience didn't exist. For this reas
on, Krantz remained the most popular actor in Berlin, playing over and over again the selfsame role in the selfsame Comedy.
The Comedy was entitled The Third Reich.
The stage was the platform of the public executioner.
Otto Krantz filled the role of Official Headsman.
Each performance boasted a new supporting cast and a growing audience to cheer the Comedy on.
It was always the same. Every morning Krantz made his grand entrance in the bleak courtyard, instructed the new players in a stage whisper, and graciously conducted them to the center of the platform. With becoming modesty, the great actor allowed each a moment alone in the spotlight in which to receive the tribute of the spectators.
After this, the show proceeded swiftly. Capable assistants did the placing and the binding—but it was Otto Krantz who tested the straps, bowed politely to the military escort, and then raised the bright, shining blade of the headsman's axe from its place in a block of ice.
Then came the glorious moment of climax; the moment that never failed to move both the minor players and the crowd. And when it was over, Otto Krantz lifted the head from the basket and held it up to his applauding audience with an honest smile of workmanlike pride.
This happened not once, but as often as ten or a dozen times in a single morning. Yet Krantz never faltered, never grew tired, never missed a line or a cue.
A sneering Prussian of the old school, the sniveling young son of a lower-class family, a withered hausfrau or a rosy-cheeked beauty—all received the same efficient courtesy at the hands of the executioner; hands, that grew stained and red with the drops that fell as each head was lifted from the basket.
At the end of the performance, Otto Krantz bowed, retired, and washed his hands like a common laborer. Democratic, was the Official Headsman.
Outside of his public appearances, Krantz led a quiet life. A glass of schnapps when work was through, perhaps a little beer to wash down dinner at some humble bierstube; a stroll through the street to hear the news, and then home to the big upstairs room near SS District Headquarters. In the evening there might be a Party meeting to attend, or a summons notifying him of tomorrow's labors.
It was a simple existence, for Otto Krantz did not share the hysteria of the times. He served the Reich with no thought of personal pleasure or profit. Let others raise the rabble and bluster in public meetings. In his time, Krantz had cut short a good many of these speakers — cut them short by a neck. These days might bring honors to a wiser head — but many wiser heads fell into his basket.
Krantz was content. A year ago he had been a humble butcher. Since leaving the slaughterhouse for a public post, he had seen enough of the world and its ways, and had met many people. Officially, in the past year, he had met several thousand. Each acquaintance was of painfully short duration, but it was enough.
He had gazed into the faces of the best families of Germany. He had held those faces in his hands — those proud, proud faces that would never smile again. And he knew that the blue-bloods stained his axe with gore as red as that of the lowest thief.
So Krantz was content. Until, gradually, the faces came too fast. It was impossible to ignore them any longer. He felt himself becoming interested in them because they passed in such an endless variety before his eyes. For each face masked a secret, each skull held a story. Young, old, pure, debauched, innocent, guilty, foolish, wise, shamed, defiant, cringing, bold — ten a day, twenty a day, they mounted the platform and bent their necks to the yoke of Death.
Who were these people he conducted into eternity? He, a simple butcher, was shaping the destiny of Germany. Shaping it with the axe. What was the nature of that Destiny? These faces knew.
Krantz tried to find out. He began to peer more closely at each prisoner in turn. Without realizing it, he gazed deeper into dead eyes, felt the shapes of skulls, traced the texture of hair and skin.
One day after work he entered a bookstall and bought texts on phrenology and physiography. That had been two months ago and now he had gone farther in his speculations.
Now, when work was through, he went home quickly and threw himself down on the bed. With eyes closed he waited for the faces of the day to pass in review.
They came — pallid, noble faces molded in sadness or rage; three thousand death masks, and the end not yet! And with them came a message.
"You, Otto Krantz, are our Master! You are the most powerful man in the Reich. Not Hitler, not Goebbels, not Himmler or the others. You, Otto Krantz, hold the real power of life and death!"
At first, Krantz was afraid of such thoughts. But every day came a dozen new reminders, a dozen new faces to review in darkness, to remember, to relish.
To relish? But of course, it was a pleasure now. To be quiet. To dress in black. To wear a mask. To hide the secret thoughts and then come home to revel alone with three thousand memories!
For weeks now his memories had seemed to center around one particular moment — the moment when he held up the head and gazed into the face. Lately he had been forced to hold himself sternly in check as he did so, lest he betray his excitement. This was the supreme thrill, to hold the heads. If there was only some way to recapture that thrill, that sensation of power, at will! If only he could —
Steal the heads.
No. That was madness. If he were discovered, he would die. And for what? The foolish face of a gaping old wastrel?
Not that. Not a gray old head with a cruel, stupid face. It was not worth the risk. But there were other heads — strange heads of debauchees, golden heads of beautiful ladies that hung before him in dreams. These were worth possessing, worth the risk. To sit in his room and behold forever such symbols of his secret glory — there was a dream!
He must find a way, Krantz decided. It would be necessary to visit the condemned cells nightly, when the lists of execution were given out. Then he could inspect the crop and make his choices. He might make an arrangement with old Fritz, the scavenger who did the burials of all the unclaimed bodies. For a few marks Fritz would do anything. Then Otto Krantz could go home with a burlap bag slung over his shoulder. Nobody would be the wiser.
Krantz thought it all out carefully. He had to be careful, make sure no one suspected, for if they knew they would not understand. They might think he was crazy and shut him away. Then he wouldn't have his axe any more. He wouldn't be able to polish the heavy, gleaming blade every morning before work started. And he couldn't see the heads every day. That must not be permitted to happen.
So he was very careful the next few times he went to work. Nobody who noticed the tall, broad-shouldered man with the close-cropped mustache and bald head would suspect that behind his stern, impassive countenance there lurked a dream.
Even his victims didn't realize it when he stared at their faces each morning. Perhaps the black mask he wore helped to disguise the hideous intensity of his searching stare. It also concealed his disappointment.
For none of these traitors had the face that would satisfy him. None seemed to hold the symbol of power he desired. There was nothing but a succession of commonplace countenances. Krantz was disappointed, but he didn't give up.
He went to Gestapo headquarters one evening late in the week. He passed up the broad stairs and received the salute of the sentinel Troopers with the dignity befitting an official of the Reich. He had no trouble in the outer offices.
The man at the desk chuckled when he heard Krantz make his request.
"You want to see the list for tomorrow? Here, it's ready. Only seven of the swine, for high treason. You can probably do the job with one hand."
Otto Krantz didn't laugh. He spoke again, smoothly. "If you please, I should like to see the prisoners."
" See them?"
"Yes."
The man at the desk shrugged. "That is very irregular. I'm afraid you'd have to ask Inspector Grunert for permission."
"But can't you — ?"
"One must obey orders, you know. Let me announce you." The
desk official buzzed the intercom, spoke briefly and then raised his head. "You may go right in," he said, nodding toward the door behind him.
Krantz forced a rigid smile. He had to go through with this, carry it off. If only he could get permission, it would be easy to make further plans.
As he entered Inspector Grunert's office, the rigid smile became suffused with incredulous delight. For there, sitting on the bench before the Inspectors desk, were the two prisoners he wanted — the answers to his prayers, his dreams.
Otto Krantz stared at them closely, noting with growing pleasure each detail of their faces.
The man was old, for only the old have long white hair. The man was young, for only the young have smooth, delicately pointed features unwrin-kled by the years. The man was ageless, for only the ageless have great green glowing eyes that burn upwards from unthinkable recesses of the brain behind.
Then he looked at the other prisoner, the woman.
The woman was a wanton, for only wantons have wildly burnished locks that flow like flame above their brows. The woman was a saint, for only a saint has the white, ecstatic purity of a face transfigured by suffering. The woman was a child, for only a child has eyes that beam in beauty.
" She is the woman I want," droned the voice within Otto Krantz.
He couldn't tear his eyes from them. The long white hair, the long red hair. The slim necks. The greenish glow of their eyes. Father and daughter? Father and daughter of Mystery. Creatures of another world, a world of dreams.
And tomorrow they would become his dreams. His to possess. Symbols of his power, the power of the headsman's axe. These were the two he wanted. . . .
"Ah, Krantz, here you are." Smiling, Grunert rose and extended a fleshy palm. "Just in time to meet two future clients." The fat Inspector bowed sardonically in the direction of the prisoners. "Allow me to present Joachim Fulger and his daughter, Eva."
They did not stir. Neither man nor girl looked at Otto Krantz. Their eyes rejected the presence of the Headsman, the Inspector, and the room itself.