Collected Fiction

by Henry Kuttner

  The note was signed by Sandra Colter, Hess’s wife. This was odd. I wondered whether Hess had seen it yet.

  There was a little hiss of indrawn breath from behind me. It was Jim, the house-boy. He said, “Mist’ Prescott—I find that note last night. Mist’ Hess not seen it. It Miss Colter’s writing.”

  He hesitated, and I read fear in his eyes—sheer, unashamed fear. He put a brown forefinger on the note.

  “See that, Mist’ Prescott?”

  He was pointing to a smudge of ink that half obscured the signature. I said, “Well?”

  “I do that, Mist’ Prescott. When I pick up the note. The ink—not dry.”

  I stared at him. He turned hastily at the sound of footsteps on the stairs. Hess Deming was coming down, rather shakily.

  I think it was then that I first realized the horrible truth. I didn’t believe it, though—not then. It was too fantastic, too incredible; yet something of the truth must have crept into my mind, for there was no other explanation for what I did then.

  Hess said, “What have you got there, Mart?”

  “Nothing,” I said quietly. I crumpled the note and thrust it into my pocket. “Nothing important, anyway. Ready to go?”

  He nodded, and we went to the door. I caught a glimpse of Jim staring after us, an expression of—was it relief?—in his dark, wizened face.

  THE crematory was in Pasadena, and I left Hess there. I would have stayed with him, but he wouldn’t have it. I knew he didn’t want anyone to be watching him when Sandra’s body was being incinerated. And I knew it would be easier for him that way. I took a short cut through the Hollywood hills, and that’s where the trouble started.

  I broke an axle. Recent rains had gullied the road, and I barely saved the car from turning over. After that I had to hike miles to the nearest telephone, and then I wasted more time waiting for a taxi to pick me up. It was nearly eight o’clock when I arrived at the studio.

  The gateman let me in, and I hurried to Stage 6. It was dark. Cursing under my breath, I turned away, and almost collided with a small figure. It was Forrest, one of the cameramen. He let out a curious squeal, and clutched my arm.

  “That you, Mart? Listen, will you do me a favor? I want you to watch a print——”

  “Haven’t time,” I said. “Seen Jean around here? I was to——”

  “It’s about that,” Forrest said. He was a shriveled, monkey-faced little chap, but a mighty good cameraman. “They’ve gone—Jean and Hardy and the Chevalier. There’s something funny about that guy.”

  “Think so? Well, I’ll phone Jean. I’ll look at your rushes tomorrow.”

  “She won’t be home,” he told me. “The Chevalier took her over to the Grove. Listen, Mart, you’ve got to watch this. Either I don’t know how to handle a grinder any more, or that Frenchman is the damnedest thing I’ve ever shot. Come over to the theater, Mart—I’ve got the reel ready to run. Just developed the rough print myself.”

  “Oh, all right,” I assented, and followed Forrest to the theater.

  I found a seat in the dark little auditorium, and listened to Forrest moving about in the projection booth. He clicked on the amplifier and said, “Hardy didn’t want any pictures taken—insisted on it, you know. But the boss told me to leave one of the automatic cameras going—not to bother with the sound—just to get an idea how the French guy would screen. Lucky it wasn’t one of the old rattler cameras, or Hardy would have caught on. Here it comes, Mart!”

  I heard a click as the amplifier was switched off. White light flared on the screen. It faded, gave place to a picture—the interior of Stage 6. The set was incongruous—a mid-Victorian parlor, with overstuffed plush chairs, gilt-edged paintings, even a particularly hideous what-not. Jack Hardy moved into the range of the camera. On the screen his face seemed to leap out at me like a death’s-head, covered with sagging, wrinkled skin. Following him came Jean, wearing a tailored suit—no one dresses for rehearsals—and behind her.

  I blinked, thinking that my eyes were tricking me. Something like a glowing fog—oval, tall as a man—was moving across the screen. You’ve seen the nimbus of light on the screen when a flashlight is turned directly on the camera? Well—it was like that, except that its source was not traceable. And, horribly, it moved forward at about the pace a man would walk.

  The amplifier clicked again. Forrest said, “When I saw it on the negative I thought I was screwy, Mart. I saw the take—there wasn’t any funny light there.

  Look——” The oval, glowing haze was motionless beside Jean, and she was looking directly at it, a smile on her lips. “Mart, when that was taken, Jean was looking right at the French guy!”

  I said, somewhat hoarsely, “Hold it, Forrest. Right there.”

  The images slowed down, became motionless. Jean’s left profile was toward the camera. I leaned forward, staring at something I had glimpsed on the girl’s neck. It was scarcely visible save as a tiny, discolored mark on Jean’s throat, above the jugular—but unmistakably the same wound I had seen on the throat of Jack Hardy the night before!

  I heard the amplifier click off. Suddenly the screen showed blindingly white, and then went black.

  I waited a moment, but there was no sound from the booth.

  “Forrest,” I called. “You okay?”

  There was no sound. The faint whirring of the projector had died. I got up quickly and went to the back of the theater. There were two entrances to the booth, a door which opened on stairs leading down to the alley outside, and a hole in the floor reached by means of a metal ladder. I went up this swiftly, an ominous apprehension mounting within me.

  FORREST was still there. But he was no longer alive. He lay sprawled on his back, his wizened face staring up blindly, his head twisted at an impossible angle. It was quite apparent that his neck had been broken almost instantly.

  I sent a hasty glance at the projector. The can of film was gone! And the door opening on the stairway was ajar a few inches.

  I stepped out on the stairs, although I knew I would see no one. The white-lit, broad alley between Stages 6 and 4 was silent and empty.

  The sound of running feet came to me, steadily growing louder. A man came racing into view. I recognized him as one of the publicity gang. I hailed him.

  “Can’t wait,” he gasped, but slowed down nevertheless.

  I said, “Have you seen anyone around here just now? The—Chevalier Futaine?”

  He shook his head. “No, but——”

  His face was white as he looked up at me. “Hess Deming’s gone crazy. I’ve got to contact the papers.”

  Ice gripped me. I raced down the stairs, clutched his arm.

  “What do you mean?” I snapped. “Hess was all right when I left him. A bit tight, that’s all.”

  His face was glistening with sweat. “It’s awful—I’m not sure yet what happened. His wife—Sandra Colter—came to life while they were cremating her. They saw her through the window, you know—screaming and pounding at the glass while she was being burned alive. Hess got her out too late. He went stark, raving mad. Suspended animation, they say—I’ve got to get to a phone, Mr. Prescott!”

  He tore himself away, sprinted in the direction of the administration buildings.

  I put my hand in my pocket and pulled out a scrap of paper. It was the note I had found in Hess Deming’s house. The words danced and wavered before my eyes. Over and over I was telling myself, “It can’t be true! Such things can’t happen!”

  I didn’t mean Sandra Colter’s terrible resurrection during the cremation. That, alone, might be plausibly explained—catalepsy, perhaps. But taken in conjunction with certain other occurrences, it led to one definite conclusion—and it was a conclusion I dared not face.

  What had poor Forrest said? That the Chevalier was taking Jean to the Cocoanut Grove?

  The taxi was still waiting. I got in. “The Ambassador,” I told the driver grimly. “Twenty bucks if you hit the green lights all the way.”

  3. T
he Black Coffin

  ALL night I had been combing Hollywood—without success. Neither the Chevalier Futaine nor Jean had been to the Grove, I discovered. And no one knew the Chevalier’s address. A telephone call to the studio, now ablaze with excitement over the Hess Deming disaster and the Forrest killing, netted me exactly nothing. I went the rounds of Hollywood night life vainly. The Trocadero, Sardi’s, all three of the Brown Derbies, the smart, notorious clubs of the Sunset eighties—nowhere could I find my quarry. I telephoned Jack Hardy a dozen times, but got no answer. Finally, in a “private club” in Culver City, I met with my first stroke of good luck.

  “Mr. Hardy’s upstairs,” the proprietor told me, looking anxious. “Nothing wrong, I hope, Mr. Prescott? I heard about Deming.”

  “Nothing,” I said. “Take me up to him.”

  “He’s sleeping it off,” the man admitted. “Tried to drink the place dry, and I put him upstairs where he’d be safe.”

  “Not the first time, eh?” I said, with an assumption of lightness. “Well, bring up some coffee, will you? Black. I’ve got to—talk to him.”

  But it was half an hour before Hardy was in any shape to understand what I was saying. At last he sat up on the couch, blinking, and a gleam of realization came into his sunken eyes.

  “Prescott,” he said, “can’t you leave me alone?”

  I leaned close to him, articulating carefully so he would be sure to understand me. “I know what the Chevalier Futaine is,” I said.

  And I waited for the dreadful, impossible confirmation, or for the words which would convince me that I was an insane fool.

  Hardy looked at me dully. “How did you find out?” he whispered.

  An icy shock went through me. Up to that moment I had not really believed, in spite of all the evidence. But now Hardy was confirming the suspicions which I had not let myself believe.

  I didn’t answer his question. Instead, I said, “Do you know about Hess?”

  He nodded, and at sight of the agony in his face I almost pitied him. Then the thought of Jean steadied me.

  “Do you know where he is now?” I asked.

  “No. What are you talking about?” he flared suddenly. “Are you mad, Mart? Do you——”

  “I’m not mad. But Hess Deming is.”

  He looked at me like a cowering, whipped dog.

  I went on grimly: “Are you going to tell me the truth? How you got those marks on your throat? How you met this—creature? And where he’s taken Jean?”

  “Jean!” He looked genuinely startled. “Has he got—I didn’t know that, Mart—I swear I didn’t. You—you’ve been a good friend to me, and—and I’ll tell you the truth—for your sake and Jean’s—although now it may be too late——”

  My involuntary movement made him glance at me quickly. Then he went on.

  “I met him in Paris. I was out after new sensations—but I didn’t expect anything like that. A Satanist club—devil-worshippers, they were. The ordinary stuff—cheap, furtive blasphemy. But it was there that I met—him.

  “He can be a fascinating chap when he tries. He drew me out, made me tell him about Hollywood—about the women we have here. I bragged a little. He asked me about the stars, whether they were really as beautiful as they seemed. His eyes were hungry as he listened to me, Mart.

  “Then one night I had a fearful nightmare. A monstrous, black horror crept in through my window and attacked me—bit me in the throat, I dreamed, or thought I did. After that I was in his power. He told me the truth. He made me his slave, and I could do nothing. His powers—are not human.”

  I licked dry lips. Hardy continued:

  “He made me bring him here, introducing him as a new discovery to be starred in Red Thirst—I’d mentioned the picture to him, before I—knew. How he must have laughed at me! He made me serve him, keeping away photographers, making sure that there were no cameras, no mirrors near him. And for a reward—he let me live.”

  I KNEW I should feel contempt for Hardy, panderer to such a loathsome evil. But somehow I couldn’t.

  I said quietly, “What about Jean? Where does the Chevalier live?”

  He told me. “But you can’t do anything, Mart. There’s a vault under the house, where he stays during the day. It can’t be opened, except with a key he always keeps with him—a silver key. He had a door specially made, and then did something to it so that nothing can open it but that key. Even dynamite wouldn’t do it, he told me.”

  I said, “Such things—can be killed.”

  “Not easily. Sandra Colter was a victim of his. After death she, too, became a vampire, sleeping by day and living only at night. The fire destroyed her, but there’s no way to get into the vault under Futaine’s house.”

  “I wasn’t thinking of fire,” I said. “A knife——”

  “Through the heart,” Hardy interrupted almost eagerly. “Yes—and decapitation. I’ve thought of it myself, but I can do nothing. I—am his slave, Mart.” I said nothing, but pressed the bell. Presently the proprietor appeared.

  “Can you get me a butcher-knife?” I measured with my hands. “About so long? A sharp one?”

  Accustomed to strange requests, he nodded. “Right away, Mr. Prescott.”

  As I followed him out, Hardy said weakly, “Mart.”

  I turned.

  “Good luck,” he said. The look on his wrecked face robbed the words of their pathos.

  “Thanks,” I forced myself to say. “I don’t blame you, Jack, for what’s happened. I—I’d have done the same.”

  I left him there, slumped on the couch, staring after me with eyes that had looked into hell.

  IT WAS past daylight when I drove out of Culver City, a long, razor-edged knife hidden securely inside my coat. And the day went past all too quickly. A telephone call told me that Jean had not yet returned home. It took me more than an hour to locate a certain man I wanted—a man who had worked for the studio before on certain delicate jobs. There was little about locks he did not know, as the police had sometimes ruefully admitted.

  His name was Axel Ferguson, a bulky, good-natured Swede, whose thick fingers seemed more adapted to handling a shovel than the mechanisms of locks. Yet he was as expert as Houdini—indeed, he had at one time been a professional magician.

  The front door of Futaine’s isolated canyon home proved no bar to Ferguson’s fingers and the tiny sliver of steel he used. The house, a modem two-story place, seemed deserted. But Hardy had said below the house.

  We went down the cellar stairs and found ourselves in a concrete-lined passage that ran down at a slight angle for perhaps thirty feet. There the corridor ended in what seemed to be a blank wall of bluish steel. The glossy surface of the door was unbroken, save for a single keyhole.

  Ferguson set to work. At first he hummed under his breath, but after a time he worked in silence. Sweat began to glisten on his face. Trepidation assailed me as I watched.

  The flashlight he had placed beside him grew dim. He inserted another battery, got out unfamiliar-looking apparatus. He buckled on dark goggles, and handed me a pair. A blue, intensely brilliant flame began to play on the door.

  It was useless. The torch was discarded after a time, and Ferguson returned to his tools. He was using a stethoscope, taking infinite pains in the delicate movements of his hands.

  It was fascinating to watch him. But all the time I realized that the night was coming, that presently the sun would go down, and that the life of the vampire lasts from sunset to sunrise.

  At last Ferguson gave up. “I can’t do it,” he told me, panting as though from a hard race. “And if I can’t, nobody can. Even Houdini couldn’t have broken this lock. The only thing that’ll open it is the key.”

  “All right, Axel,” I said dully. “Here’s your money.”

  He hesitated, watching me. “You going to stay here, Mr. Prescott?”

  “Yeah,” I said. “You can find your way out. I’ll—wait awhile.”

  “Well, I’ll leave the light with
you,” he said. “You can let me have it sometime, eh?”

  He waited, and, as I made no answer, he departed, shaking his head.

  Then utter silence closed around me. I took the knife out of my coat, tested its edge against my thumb, and settled back to wait.

  Less than half an hour later the steel door began to swing open. I stood up. Through the widening crack I saw a bare, steel-lined chamber, empty save for a long, black object that rested on the floor. It was a coffin.

  The door was wide. Into view moved a white, slender figure—Jean, clad in a diaphanous, silken robe. Her eyes were wide, fixed and staring. She looked like a sleep-walker.

  A man followed her—a man wearing impeccable evening clothes. Not a hair was out of place on his sleek blond head, and he was touching his lips delicately with a handkerchief as he came out of the vault.

  There was a little crimson stain on the white linen where his lips had brushed.

  4. The Vampire

  JEAN walked past me as though I didn’t exist. But the Chevalier Futaine paused, his eyebrows lifted. His blade eyes pierced through me.

  The handle of the knife was hot in my hand. I moved aside to block Futaine’s way. Behind me came a rustle of silk, and from the comer of my eye I saw Jean pause hesitatingly.

  The Chevalier eyed me, toying negligently with his handkerchief. “Mart,” he said slowly. “Mart Prescott.” His eyes flickered toward the knife, and a little smile touched his lips.

  I said, “You know why I’m here, don’t you?”

  “Yes,” he said. “I—heard you. I was not disturbed. Only one thing can open this door.”

  From his pocket he drew a key, shining with a dull silver sheen.

  “Only this,” he finished, repladng it, “Your knife is useless, Mart Prescott.”

  “Maybe,” I said, edging forward very slightly. “What have you done to Jean?”

  A curious expression, almost of pain, flashed into his eyes. “She is mine,” he shot out half angrily. “You can do nothing, for——”