They had to know… it was a question of hours, maybe of minutes.
Martine was in the hands of these demented maniacs. Martine would soon be carried alive to the altar of the red mass...
Olga had stopped talking. Suffering a fit, she was foaming at the mouth, twisting and drooling. The star discovered by Marcel Trempont, the one Hollywood was waiting for, had turned all of a sudden into a wretched madwoman.
All four of them, leaning over her, understood that she would not say anymore—not today.
Nothing more for hours and hours.
CHAPTER XIV
“What could she be thinking of?” the nurse on duty at Olga’s bedside wondered.
In spite of every possible discretion, the news had leaked out and the hospital personnel now knew the identity of their strange patient. Besides, her photo had been published everywhere over the past few weeks.
Professor Gelor and his partner, Doctor Sorbier, had been closely following Olga’s case for the last two days. What illness was affecting her? Obviously, it had to be psychological, but despite more sessions with her, they could not get anything out of her.
At Teleor, everything was going very badly. The filming had stopped. Baron Tragny had been informed told and planned to return quickly. Marcel Trempont was tearing out his hair. They had promised him that his star would soon be back on her feet, but the director was not at all reassured and wondered whether he should start refilming Olga’s scenes. But first, he would have to find another girl like her to use as his Mephista. An almost impossible task!
Olga did not move, did not talk, looked like she was always sleeping and asked practically nothing. One nurse. Then another. And another. Olga could never be left alone.
It was the end of the third day. It was dark and drizzling outside. The nurse had to stop reading. There was not enough light and she was forbidden from turning one the electric light, except for necessary care. Olga had not moved. In spite of the darkness, the nurse saw that her eyes were closed. But perhaps she was only pretending to sleep? If only she could pierce the secret of that beautiful face…
Olga knew what was happening around her. Olga waited. The Cult needed her. They would not leave her in enemy hands. They would come and get her.
In the twilight, in that obscurity that enveloped the world, the nurse dozed off. Like all her colleagues, she was vaguely disturbed, realizing that this patient whom they were watching so closely, who was really little more than a prisoner, might pose a real danger for those guarding and caring for her. Like everyone, she had followed the strange adventure. They had mentioned Olga’s illness to the press, but the address of the private hospital, located in the western part of Paris, had been kept secret.
Everyone knew, however, that Police Chief Farnese had launched an unusual investigation because of some strange and secret information private detective Teddy Verano had given him.
They whispered about this in the hospital corridors, but what the nurse did not know was that the police was on full alert and the search in the Porte des Lilas and Porte de Bagnolet sectors had not turned up anything.
Therefore, the nurse knew some of the story, but for the rest of it, her imagination ran wild. She had the vague feeling that she was playing a bit part in a drama that was far bigger than her, and for this, she was proud.
The door of the room opened, so quietly that the nurse did not notice it and she remained motionless in her chair.
A man entered. Olga’s eyes were still closed, but she saw him. She knew who he was.
The nurse started because Olga moved on her bed.
“Do you want something?” she asked.
Olga did not answer. The nurse stood up and approached… No, nothing. The patient was not moving anymore.
Reassured, the nurse went back to her chair to wait patiently. One more hour until the end of her shift, which had seemed particularly tiresome. When she turned around, she saw a man walking toward her silently, after closing the door. Her cry became caught in her throat. Because in the darkness she had seen the glare of those two incredibly intense eyes that seemed to shine like a cat’s.
For a moment, she did not move. It was like 200-pounds of lead were weighing on her, on her limbs, keeping her from showing the slightest move of defiance. She felt exhausted, very exhausted… Those eyes…
The man stood like a statue, dictating his mental orders. The poor girl backed away, farther, farther… She bumped against the window and stopped, only half awake, only half understanding, so surprised by her sudden fatigue that she thought that death was coming for her final rest.
The man turned his head toward Olga. His lips did not move but he talked and she heard him.
“Get up, Olga. Get dressed. You have to leave this place and come with me. They’re waiting for you.”
Olga obeyed and took her things from the small metal cabinet. The man watched her and when she was ready, he turned back toward the frozen nurse, as if to consider what he might do with this poor thing under his invisible control.
The nurse opened the window and, like a nightmare, unable to fight against the forces unleashed against her, started to climb on the ledge. They were on the third floor.
Olga and her mysterious guide left, still wrapped in silence.
A loud cry of horror and of death followed them as a white shape fell to the ground below…
Outside, people screamed and called out for help. Straightaway, a huge commotion spread through the hospital and the grounds. They ran to help the poor girl, but it was too late. In the meantime, two shadows slipped through the corridors, passed by the reception desk and left, sneaking through the bushes.
Emotions ran wild. They were expecting anything but this at the hospital. Was it an accident? A suicide?
For a while, everyone ran around, neglecting their duties. Two shadows hiding in the bushes took that opportunity to sneak out the back gate. A car was there with its lights off. The man had the key and was followed by the woman. Quickly, it whisked them away.
At the hospital, they were trying to understand. A stretcher carried away the nurse’s broken body. On the police frequency, a dispatch was sent out:
“Falcon calling Delta. Falcon calling Delta.”
Upon learning of the attack on the nurse (for, what else could it be?), Chief Farnese swore like a pagan. Teddy Verano was immediately informed. Edwige Hossegor and Michel Roz (the three of them were almost always together now) were at his side when that happened.
“What’s going on?”
“The bastards… They threw a nurse out the window. But if they figure that it’s so easy to escape a hospital under guard, they’re in for a surprise… The police are after them. And if we don’t find the house about to be demolished, as Olga called it, it’s likely that they’ll lead us there.”
Michel shuddered.
“As long as we get there in time. Oh, Martine!”
Teddy Verano patted him on the shoulder.
“You want to bet that nothing has happened to her? Yet… I repeat, as long as Olga isn’t there, they’ll wait. And you don’t know Farnese as I do. He let them get away on purpose… It was a trap that he set for them!’
“What can we do?” Edwige asked.
“Well, I intend to prowl around Belleville and Bagnolet. My friends in the police will keep me informed and I want to be there when they throw the net over those madmen who think they’re Satan’s little helpers. Plus, I’ve got my own plan.”
“I’m going with you,” Michel said emphatically, thinking only of Martine.
“Me too,” Edwige Hossegor joined in.
The cars took off into Paris. Walkie-talkies were turned on. Eventually the police spotted a suspicious little car in the evening rush hour traffic heading for Belleville. They made sure that it did not look like it was being followed. The passengers thought they’d gotten away scot free. However, police eyes were trained on the car and those inside.
Three women dressed in black entered.
Martine was startled to see these new apparitions.
Instead of the perverted brute who regularly brought her meals, but now barely looked at her, just putting the plate down and scurrying out as if he was afraid of his own desires, these three creatures had entered her prison.
They were three women who were still young, with beautifully done-up hair, but whose exquisite make-up could not hide the weird wrinkles, the odd sags marring their faces, which had not yet suffered the assaults of old age. Three women no doubt affected by some mysterious depravity.
Martine examines in a daze their weird black dresses. They were covered from head to toe, but with a bold, obscene design slashed out in places that a woman, even scantily dressed, normally hides under even the flimsiest clothes.
Martine did not have much time to scrutinize the dresses. The three women came up to her. They surrounded her.
“You’re coming with us,” they said in a monotone voice, with no emotion.
Martine, without knowing why, was more scared of these women than of her lecherous jailor. She scooted back on her cot, where she usually stayed, lying down. Small but strong hands grabbed her and dragged her off. She struggled, yelled, but the long hours of captivity in the horrible cell (several days and nights no doubt) had worn her down.
Another voice, as impersonal as the first, murmured:
“Don’t be scared. We’re going to make you beautiful, even more beautiful.”
And the third almost chants:
“You have to be beautiful, more beautiful…”
Half-conscious Martine left her evil dungeon with them. She could not say where they went. Dark places, other basements probably, and then, the blinding light of a very modern, very comfortable bathroom.
She had no strength to resist. The three women, with slow, methodical movements, in no hurry, steadily but forcefully, took off her wrinkled clothes, stinking of her captivity, and put her in the bathtub. The warm, scented water felt good and the women’s hands dipped into the blue water, massaged her, relaxed her…
After the pleasant bath, they dried her with spotless towels before putting a white dress on her with no underwear. A very decent dress, the opposite of the shameless outfits of the three strange women. A dress that was plain, buttoned in the front with a belt around the waist.
They sat her down and fixed her hair. She breathed in heady perfumes but barely reacted. Was this a dream? Was the nightmare continuing? Evolving?
A hidden fear was gnawing away inside her but she could no longer fight back.
These three women… Their wilted beauty, their distant, gloomy eyes, it was all so hideously frightening…
One of them spoke, still in a dead tone:
“It is time.”
And the two others repeated:
“Yes, it is time.”
They surrounded Martine again, after examining her with eyes that show no reaction. Obviously, however, they judged her ready since they left the bathroom, leading Martine like a well-oiled robot.
Martine walked. She thought she heard some muddled whispering. She couldn’t see well because, after the bright, clear light of the bathroom where they had given her that weird preening, she was now in the dark. The hallway seemed endless and totally black. But at the end was a hazy light, reddish, cloudy…
Martine arrived with her three guides who stuck right next to her.
A curtain. A black curtain, but the eerie glow filtered through an opening. The three women made Martine go through and the procession came out in a big room with a fairly low ceiling, its walls entirely covered with the same black curtains, shiny like nylon. A black hanging covered the ceiling and gave the gigantic box the appearance of a vast coffin.
There were people here, lots of people.
Men with bare chests wearing nothing but tight, black pants. Women with the same outrageous, immoral dresses as Martine’s three guardians. People of all ages. All of them staring with gloomy eyes.
But when Martine entered, there was a kind of shiver that ran through the eldritch crowd. Then silence. Total silence.
Martine, almost being carried by her three companions, approached the back of the big, black room, noticing that the reddish glow came from huge, queerly twisted candelabra, all holding thirteen candles. Thirteen black candles.
The air was heavy and perfumed, with a mixture of sulfur and incense, probably coming the night-colored candles.
Before the fixed stare of the motionless, mute audience that had now stopped its constant whispering, Martine arrived at the back, between two huge candelabra also with thirteen branches and black candles, but these were absolutely enormous. Between the candelabra was a kind of platform, also covered in the shiny black nylon.
Three steps. A cube covered in black, like everything else. Or something like an altar.
Martine looked in outraged shock at the crucifix hanging above the altar. Hanging upside down.
An irresistible nausea washed over her. She stepped back. She felt something evil was brewing… something beyond abomination.
But the three women in their prurient robes grabbed onto her. Martine cried out in horror as they dragged her, indelicately now, up the steps to the altar and lay her down on the black table, holding her tightly as they tied her down with silver cords.
The candelabra diffused their hideous red glow.
And the half-naked crowd, stricken with a sudden tremor, exhaled a ghastly rumble, a muffled, menacing rumble like a cursed caress…
CHAPTER XV
It was like a flood of flesh and night, menacing and sensual.
Martine, stretched upon the altar, did not see the people. She sensed them without yet realizing anything, except that she would have to experience the deepest depths of horror.
But a man had just shown up, parting the group of adepts of the foul sect. He went to the steps and the three women separated, though remaining there, standing solemnly. He was completely draped in a kind of black gown, different from the other men present.
The gown made his pale face stand out more hideously with its sunken eyes, thin lips and bird-like nose. He was ugly, the kind of ugly that evokes phantoms. Martine knew him, even if all she could see was the dark ceiling—the frightening person who had popped up several times in her life over the past few weeks.
He made a sweeping gesture and everyone became quiet. In the funereal chapel, enwrapped in the smoky red glow, all that could be seen was a confusion of shadows and naked skin in suggestive and pale blotches.
Marcel Trempont and his team could not have done better. But maybe the filmmakers would have balked at the ridiculous, outdated aspect that must have totally escaped these fanatics in the creepy crypt.
Now the formerly empty eyes became strangely lit up. Men and women squeezed together were getting excited, eager to see the weird ceremony they had been waiting for begin. And all of the them, especially the men, were staring avidly at the white figure of Martine, literally posed on the altar and whose white robe showed off her curves, making her more desirable than all the shameless women huddled there among the half-naked men.
The man started speaking.
He spoke about the dark days before men walked the Earth, mixing up spells gleaned from old grimoires and verses from ancient Hindu texts. Even though nothing had yet happened between the adepts, the crowd was more fit for the vice squad than any other department of the police. A healthy, balanced mind would have promptly called it the worst gathering of crazy people anywhere.
But those present believed in the power of the evil entities they worshipped.
“The grand moment is here… the time when all of you will worship our Dark Master, when you will not be satisfied with harmless gatherings where only animal blood is spilled… Tonight, we are going farther than ever before. The ultimate sacrifice. The promises of the red mass will be fulfilled. Then all of you will receive the reward for your loyalty to our Master… and your success, thanks to the Prince of this world, will be certain.
Nothing will be refused you, and all joys on Earth will be given to you.”
A ripple went through the crowd and the groping began in the shadows of red and black.
The priest of Satan suddenly raised his arms toward the back of the room.
“The priestess is going to appear… Opposing forces have mobilized to stop our sacrifice. I was able, thanks to the powers of Evil, to free her and bring her here. Nothing can stop us now.”
He paused. Then in a solemn voice, he said, ‘
“Appear, daughter of Satan! Come forth, Mephista!”
On the altar, the poor little body of Martine shook with a violent trembling. She was slowly starting to understand, to imagine she understood. And the many strange things she had noticed in Olga’s behavior were now seen for what they really were.
Under these madmen’s control, what wouldn’t she risk?
Olga stepped forward. Wearing the same black gown as the priest, she walked among the faithful. Everyone was looking at her and more than ever, their eyes shimmered like garnets, reflecting the red flames dancing on top of the black votive candles.
Walking stiffly, majestically, more beautiful than ever, Olga came to the altar, climbed the steps, but did not even look at Martine before turning to face the crowd. In one, quick movement, she dropped her gown and appeared in her statuesque nudity, highlighted by the weird lighting that cast copper, blood, unforgettable tones on her skin.
A murmur ran through the adepts, which the priest stopped with a raised hand.
“Mephista, tell us who you are. Tell us what the Evil One is expecting of us.”
With her beautiful voice that the Teleor microphones had recorded for the world’s screens, the new star spoke. She told of her gloomy youth, her coming to Paris, her fruitless efforts, her outdated honesty and her pointless virtue. Then she had met the Evil One, learned out about the diabolical cult, and had been called upon by the Infernal Powers.
She found out, she stated, where the road to Truth lay. In the well-being from riches and free love, in the intoxication of glory. Trampling underfoot the years of poverty, she accepted the sinister pact, sold her soul one night during one of these red masses, where the priestess was another woman who had preceded her on the paths of renunciation, and who had won the hand of a billionaire. Olga could verify that she had got her wish, and was now one of the richest women in the world.
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