by Gene Wolfe
“This is something which transcends scientific crime detection,” the old man countered. “It is not a case of an assassin disguising his feet with something which will leave an outlandish footprint. Yet that is what Monsieur le Préfet will attempt to prove, and he will fail.
“But I will approach from another angle.”
As he spoke, d’Artois, with swift gesture, swept his desk clear of its accumulated debris. Then he laid out a sheet of paper and with a compass drew a circle which he divided into twelve equal sectors. That done, he took from a bookcase a thin volume whose pages were divided into columns. It was an ephemeris.
“Mon ami,” explained d’Artois in response to Barrett’s exclamation, “astronomical tables are not exclusively used for navigation. An ephemeris, you recollect, is also used by astrologers.”
“I am inquiring into the planetary aspects. In the meantime, do you swill the rest of my brandy. Your stomach doubtless needs settling.”
Barrett selected a cigar from d’Artois’s humidor; then, his curiosity overcoming him, he peered over the old man’s shoulder, watching him enter astrological symbols in the twelve sectors of the circle. The cigar had accumulated less than an inch of ash when d’Artois thrust back his chair.
“I see more than murder and mutilation,” he declared. “I see a sinister configuration that cries out of an old and malignant magic. Neptune, in the Eighth House, indicates death by strange spiritual causes. And look at the position of Saturn, the lord of those who follow subterranean pursuits; Uranus, the sovereign of thaumaturgists and black magicians; and over all is the evil aspect of the moon, the mother of sorcery.”
“Still and all, Pierre,” interjected Barrett, perplexed by the astrological jargon, “you’ve only repeated what we already know. We saw it was uncanny and horrible. Anyway, this astrology business —”
“Has been degraded by charlatans, I grant,” snapped d’Artois. “But it is none the less a true science, and only limited by the intelligence of the investigator.
“I am looking into the background of this monstrous crime. And the first move is to seek underground, a black magician working in some of the hidden vaults beneath the city. Check up on all those known or suspected of having occult connections. Thus we have already eliminated all common criminals, n’est-ce pas?”
Barrett, impressed by his friend’s solemnity, conceded the point, outrageous as it was to hear a sane, hard-bitten old soldier and scholar to speak of black magic as an actual menace; but d’Artois’s ensuing assertion left Barrett too astonished even to protest.
“And the first of these devil mongers and dabblers in the occult that I will investigate is our charming host of the evening, Don José. He is the head of a clique that has gathered in Bayonne. On the surface, they seem to be harmless cranks who babble of telepathy, mysticism, and the like; but tonight’s tragedy confirms my contention that modern Bayonne is living up to its ancient reputation for being a nest of malignant occultists and necromancers!”
“Good God, Pierre!” Barrett finally contrived to ejaculate. “Why—that’s utterly impossible —”
“So was the gruesome tragedy in the moat,” retorted d’Artois, his blue eyes cold and glittering as sword points by moonlight. “And wait till I tell you the rest: Yvonne and Louise are twins. If there is one iota of truth in astrology, Yvonne will succumb, or at the best, narrowly escape the doom that overtook her sister.
“Their horoscopes, while, of course, not identical, would be so similar that both would be susceptible to the occult evil that is stalking tonight. The stars have warned us. You watch the living while I set out to trip up the monster responsible for that ghastly crime. Hurry—before it’s too late!”
Barrett’s last remnant of skepticism melted before his friend’s unwavering conviction. He followed d’Artois to the street, and through the river mists that billowed from the Nive and marched up rue Tour de Sault like a phantom army.
II.
The Beast from the Crypt
D’ Artois’s car was parked near Don José’s house. “I will not only need it tonight,” explained d’Artois as they hurried along rue Lachepaillet, “but we must also get Mademoiselle Yvonne—get her away from that party. That Spaniard —”
“But I don’t see how he could be connected with it,” contended Barrett. “He was there, all the time, among his guests. Yvonne just stepped out for a moment for a breath of air, or —”
“Imbécile!” snorted d’Artois. “That’s just the point: Don José being always in sight of his guests gives him a perfect but deceptive alibi.”
“But that doesn’t prove —”
“Of course it proves nothing. But if you’d read that fellow’s book on Tibetan magic, and heard the rumors of his doings near the roof of the world, you would think twice, pardieu!
“Alone, I am handicapped. But fortunately there is in Bayonne an occultist who can help me. A profound scholar whose researches can perhaps save the day: Sidi Abdurrahman, an Oriental mystic and Chêla, a disciple of an occult Adept.”
Barrett shuddered as they passed the bastion of the Lachepaillet wall and heard the detectives, already on the case, and the crisp, incisive voice of the Prefect who had appeared to take charge in person. And then, presently, they heard music, and laughter, the mirth of Don José’s guests. Barrett nerved himself to ascend the stairs and enter the glow of lights and the mocking presence of gaiety.
Yvonne, they learned, had left Don José’s house only a few minutes after d’Artois and Barrett had gone in search of Louise.
“Por Dios, Señor,” said the courtly Spaniard, ”she fancied her sister was ill and went home to join her. I trust that you will present my compliments and regrets to the lovely Louise. I am indeed sorry that she had to leave so early. Is it possible that she may return for her wrap?”
Don José was mocking them; and Barrett, remembering d’Artois dreadful surmises, sought to deny the thought that Yvonne, like her sister, had gone out into the mist and the moonlight to meet a horrible death; nor was he reassured by the fierce glitter in d’Artois’s eyes and the twitch of his waxed moustache as he paused a moment before replying, “I will take her wrap, and leave it on my way past their apartment.”
D’Artois and the Spaniard regarded each other as though they had crossed swords instead of glances; and during the exchange Barrett sensed a sudden tension, a current of deadly animosity, like a dagger biting through a shroud of silk. He saw Don José’s cheeks for an instant lose their olive tint; and the dark eyes, troubled by the frosty, unwavering stare of d’Artois, seemed eager to shift.
“Sacré salaud! hissed d’Artois, ”you know she will never need her wrap. I am busy this evening—and you know why. But I will meet you, with sword or pistol. Soon.”
Don José recoiled before the insult and the vague accusation. Then he shrugged, smiled blandly, twisted his black moustache.
“Señor, I have not the least idea why you insult me, or what you are implying. Neither am I interested. But if you live long enough, and your courage is equal to the occasion, I will be happy to meet you with any weapons you may prefer.”
The stilted, formal speech would have seemed absurd to Barrett had he not sensed the deadly, blazing hatred that flashed for an instant from Don José’s eyes.
“Mordieu, cordieu, pardieu!” retorted d’Artois, advancing a pace. “If anything happens to Mademoiselle Yvonne, I will not meet you with weapons—I will dismember you by hand.”
They exchanged bows with punctilious formality; and then d’Artois turned and led the way to the Mercedes.
“I am more than ever convinced that in some way he’s responsible. He, or one of his devil mongering clique,” declared d’Artois as he took the wheel.
“But how could he? It’s utterly incredible —”
“Science scoffs at sorcery, glibly explains its manifestations as hysterical hypnosis,” countered d’Artois. “But that does not make it any the less magic. Remember what you saw
in the moat and how the horoscope confirmed our first impressions. Certainly I am at loss, but Sidi Abdurrahman’s years of study will solve the riddle.
“Maybe,” conceded Barrett, “you’re right. Oddly enough, your remarks didn’t puzzle him as they should have.”
“By no means strange,” retorted d’Artois as they drew up before the apartment of the two sisters. “He knew that I knew.”
A sturdy, white-haired Basque maid admitted them. Yvonne Marigny received them in the living room. Her olive skin was deadly pale, and her dark eyes burned with an unnatural light.
“Yes. The Sûreté notified me, just a few minutes after I arrived,” she said with a calmness that was more devastating than any outburst of grief. “I had a premonition of evil when Louise slipped out for a breath of air. And when I sent you to look for her—mon Dieu! It was too late.”
“But why did you leave before we returned?”
Yvonne shook her head.
“I don’t know. Just an irresistible urge to get away. To go home. Like the instinct that urges an animal to creep off to its den and die.”
She shuddered, made a perplexed, despairing gesture.
“So…you were almost driven from there,” said d’Artois, speaking very slowly, and glancing meaningly at Barrett. Then his eyes flashed toward the windows and their closely spaced wrought-iron bars. He nodded approvingly; and Barrett caught the unspoken thought.
“Mon vieux, do you stay here with Mademoiselle Yvonne. I am going to get Sidi Abdurrahman. He lives out beyond the Mousserole Wall, not far off the river road.”
Then, as Barrett accompanied him to the door, he continued in a whisper, “The same strange, unreasoning compulsion that sent Louise to her death may send Yvonne wandering by moonlight. Don’t let her out of the house. Hold her. Tie her, if necessary!”
The door clicked closed behind d’Artois; and a moment later they heard the soft whir of gears.
The proximity of tragedy depressed Barrett. He resolutely directed his eyes away from the barred window, and the moon-drenched mists beyond, and sought to banish the memory of what he had seen in the moat; but a strange fascination forced him to gaze into the ghastly glamour of the night. Barrett shivered, rose from his chair, intending to draw the shades to screen that ill-omened view. Yvonne nodded, sensing his motive, and smiled wanly through the tears that glistened in her dark eyes.
“Monsieur Barrett,” said Yvonne, “this is all so terribly unreal…it is like an awful nightmare. It seems as though all the evil that has ever existed is concentrating about us.”
Thus she described the feeling that Barrett had vainly sought to dispel. He had assured himself that it was but natural for Yvonne, grief-stricken and horrified as she was, to infect him with her own emotions; and yet, that reassurance by no means convinced him.
He noted that the lights were dimming. He frowned perplexedly, and resumed his seat, instead of drawing the shade.
“Bum voltage regulation,” he insisted; but Barrett’s intuition told him that the trouble was not electrical. Then he saw that wisps of mist were swirling and drifting in through the window.
Yvonne stared into the coals of the grate, whose ardent glow had suddenly cooled. The girl herself had become lethargic, as though her spirit had left her. For a moment Barrett felt utterly alone. It was as though Yvonne were a lovely simulacrum and not a woman who shrank shuddering into the depths of her spacious chair.
Gray vapors swirled and surged through the room. A chilling breeze urged the mist whorl into sweeping spirals; mists that came neither from the Nive nor the Adour, nor any earthly river. Barrett thought again of d’Artois’s solemn declaration, “Saturn, the lord of subterranean places, Neptune, who governs strange spiritual enemies, and malignant Uranus, rule this night.”
Barrett stepped to the center of the room, where he could see the double windows that overlooked the Lachepaillet Walk. He saw a monstrous shape peering at him as, perched on the sill, it clutched the window-bars and slowly wrenched them apart.
The walls had become obscured with dense, vibrant mist banks, so that only in the center of the room was any light left. The incandescent lamps were now a dull, somber red that vainly sought to filter through the surging haze.
The creature’s feet identified it as the monster of the moat.
Barrett saw now what had torn Louise’s throat and drunk her blood, then taken three long strides and —
It had spread its membranous bat-wings and soared into the moonlight, and thence to whatever unknown hell had sent it forth. The face was anthropoid, but malignant, beyond the bestial wrath of any honest ape. The body was hybrid, neither reptilian nor simian: a blasphemy and an outrage whose hideously confused anatomy was all the more abhorrent in its mingling of hair and scales.
The feet were almost human at the heel, but branched into three claw-like toes, joined by webs. Beast it was, yet bird, and reptile. The hands were similarly formed, with arms long enough to accommodate the broad sweep of the membranous wings.
Barrett knew that the creature had no thought for him. He knew that he could then and there stride safe and harmless through the ever-thickening mist banks, past the somber, vengeful forms that leered out of the haze, and pass on, unmolested. The beast ignored him. It advanced with a slow, fluent, serpentine motion that was entirely out of accord with its grotesque, awkward bulk. It paused, ready to spring forward and rend Yvonne’s throat, mutilate her as it had her sister.
The Basque maid, alarmed by Yvonne’s single shriek of mortal terror, came running in, stared in incredulous horror. Then she screamed and collapsed on the threshold.
As the monster lunged toward Yvonne, who was paralyzed by the apparition, Barrett seized a heavy chair and lashed out, shattering it across the simian skull. The beast recoiled, sank back to its haunches, shook its head as though bewildered.
Barrett stood for an instant regarding the fragments that remained in his grasp. Then in a flare of rage born of terror and outraged reason, he charged, driving the splintered stumps full into the monster’s face.
The assault was vain. He had disconcerted the beast more than he had shaken it. It lashed out with arms that reached almost to its ankles, and enfolded Barrett with its shroud of membranous wings. It screeched and hissed in inarticulate fury. Its long carnivorous teeth sought his throat, even as Barrett, beyond terror or reason, evaded the fangs and sought to throttle the beast, and tear it to pieces with his bare hands.
It was a mad dream of combat in a steaming, prehistoric jungle. The reptilian exhalation of the monster, its squeaking, gibbering wrath and the stifling embrace of its wings, drove Barrett to an insane rage. The thing was strong, but not beyond the strength of human wrath spurred to frenzy; and the very horror of its presence stirred up reserves of destructive fury whose force was dimly echoed in Barrett’s ears as he heard the splintering of furniture that crashed and fell into fragments as he and the monster rolled and leaped, broke, and closed in again, seeking each other’s throat.
And yet for all his rage-inspired strength and agility, Barrett vainly sought to rend that tough, scaly body which yielded instead of tearing or breaking as he applied in succession, one after another savage trick of wrestling, and murderous holds practiced by Japanese experts. Though, it could not quite overcome Barrett, it resisted the full flame of his fury. Its endurance was unflagging, and its counter attacks fresh and vigorous as from the start. It seemed to gain strength from Barrett’s blood, which streamed from a score of cuts and scratches and long, ragged furrows gouged by its teeth.
Barrett’s strength at last was consumed by the futility of his rage. As in a confused dream, his mind began double-tracking: one half still a vortex of flaming wrath, the other impersonally pondering on d’Artois’s astrological observations. He knew that this division of consciousness heralded the end of his resistance; and exerting an ultimate, despairing effort, sought to sink his teeth into the monster’s throat. But the mists blackened, and the enemy evaded him
. His arms clutched a void of abysmal coldness shot with burning flashes of scarlet and orange and dazzling, metallic blue. Then it seemed that he was falling swiftly through unbounded space…and as from a great distance he heard a long drawn wail of uttermost terror.
III.
The Savor of Blood
When Barrett finally regained consciousness he saw that the lights were bright again. D’Artois, kneeling at his side, was sponging his wounds.
“…all in the approach,” a calm, deep voice was saying. “Your friend—though God alone knows how—withstood the beast by pure force of will to slay. But that was misguided effort.”
Barrett with a sudden effort propped himself up on his elbow to confront the person who so lightly disposed of that nightmare battle with that monster from an unknown hell; but his strength was unequal to his curiosity, and he sank back to the floor.
D’Artois helped him to his feet. Barrett, still dazed, for a moment had assumed that d’Artois’s presence left victory to be taken for granted; but a second glance at his friend’s grim features and despair haunted eyes told him the truth.
“Where is she?” he demanded, stubbornly resisting his fears. “Good Lord, did it —”
And then Barrett saw d’Artois’s companion, Sidi Abdurrahman. Despite the freshness of the occultist’s bronzed skin, he seemed incredibly ancient. Barrett’s first impression was that some solemn Assyrian colossus had come to life. The neatly trimmed, square-cut beard added to the resemblance; only the tall miter was lacking. For an instant Barrett’s despair subsided; and then he remembered that d’Artois had failed.
“Where is she?” he repeated. “We can’t stand here, idle.”
“We do not know—yet,” replied the Chêla, unperturbed by Barrett’s impatient outburst. “But there are ways of finding out. First, be so good as to clear the floor.”
Barrett shot a dubious glance at d’Artois. His friend’s answering nod was reassuring. And while they cleared away the wreckage of the furniture, Sidi Abdurrahman laid off a circle which he subdivided into seven sectors, and about which he drew a concentric circle.