Kisses From Satan

by George B Mair

  ‘That may be so.’ Grant edged his voice with excitement. ‘See here, Professor Hancke. I know enough to understand that there’s not a great deal wrong with me and maybe it is only overwork or over-worry. But I’ve got to be made right. A lot of things depend on me and my department is very exacting.’

  ‘But you feel up to the job. You don’t feel that the responsibility is too much?’

  Grant shook his head, and his voice was louder than usual. ‘I know it is not too much. But things pile on top of me. I feel smothered by lots of trifles.’

  ‘And Maya Koren is a big thing?’

  ‘Sure.’ Grant was now using his parade ground voice. ‘If matters don’t improve I could lose her. There’s plenty of opposition and women like Maya are difficult to please. They have an artistic temperament.’

  ‘You have had trouble?’

  Grant became confidential. ‘She wants more than I can give her. I’m tired all the time nowadays and I guess she’s fed up.’

  The Professor pressed a bell and looked up as two nurses entered the room. ‘Take Doctor Grant to his chalet. Have him undress and bring him to the examination suite in precisely fifteen minutes.’ He turned to Grant. ‘We shall do some preliminary tests. After which you will have a few days free to relax in our grounds while we consider what needs to be done.’

  An electrically driven four-seater wagon was at the side door of the Professor’s study which opened directly on to a drive cutting down to the lake. ‘We avoid noise,’ he said, as Grant entered the back seat. ‘Tranquillity is of the essence.’

  The chauffeur touched a foot pedal and swept past a bed of crimson roses to Grant’s chalet which was one of five grouped in a hundred-yard semi-circle around a kidney-shaped swimming pool edged with boxes of flowers. There was a bedroom and sitting-room, bath with separate toilet, and a small terrace facing due south. A five-foot wall hanging with clematis and honeysuckle protected him from the eyes of his neighbours and west of the house he could still see the blueness of the lake.

  A nurse handed him a bathrobe. ‘Be so good as to change, m’sieur. And then we shall return to business.’

  Hancke was waiting for him in a tiled examination room. The walls were blended blue with cream and the ceiling was jet black.

  ‘Lie down, Doctor.’

  He anchored the leads of an electrocardiograph and Grant lay motionless for a long three minutes while tracings were taken.

  The Professor smiled with satisfaction. ‘At first glance I would say very normal. Now your blood pressure.’

  The mercury hit 135 systolic and 70 diastolic.

  ‘For a worried or over-tired man that is quite excellent.’ The Professor made a gesture with his hands. ‘And now standing up.’ He pumped the cuff and listened. Grant could feel the surge of blood as the mercury dropped to 140 and the Professor again jotted down a figure. ‘Almost the same.’

  He pointed towards a corner of the room. ‘Our electroencephalogram. For emotionally distressed patients this is a “must”. Be so good as to compose yourself on the couch.’

  Grant forced himself to think about other things as electrodes were again fixed to his temples, to his forehead and to his neck. Maya would now be in Paris. Her maids had travelled with her and H.Q. would check her arrival at the flat.

  He could hear the soft buzz of the instrument.

  The room was abnormally quiet, and even Hancke’s breathing seemed to rape the silence until at last it was over. The Professor filed several metres of graph paper and looked down with a broad smile. ‘Again my first impression is that these tracings are normal so perhaps you do not have so much to worry about.’

  He lifted an ophthalmoscope and stared deeply into each eye. ‘Not even some early hardening of the arteries.’ He returned the small black instrument to its box. And then: ‘Just stay as you are,’ he ordered. ‘And let’s talk. Tell me about yourself. The work you do. The places you go. The hobbies you pursue. The things you would like to do. The people you know and the things you would normally only tell to the father at confessional.’ He lifted Grant’s hand and stroked it gently. ‘You are sweating slightly. What have we done which worried you most? Pour out your heart and then . . . poof . . . we shall adjourn for dinner.’

  Grant hated talking. A man could give himself away when he opened his mouth. But Juin had suspected how the interview would go and briefed him to the limit.

  He lay back on the couch and allowed Hancke to do some mild analysis. But every sense was quivering with the need to balance his replies as he listened to the questions and slowly drawled out an answer. Slowly, because he needed time to think.

  And then Hancke interrupted. His manner was impatient. ‘You are not co-operating. You are weighing up what to tell me though you ought to know that this is confessional. On Thursday you must do better.’

  Grant tried to look self-conscious. ‘I’m sorry. But it doesn’t come naturally.’

  Hancke helped him into his dressing robe. ‘But . . . it . . . will . . . come. And later this evening my pathologist will visit you at the chalet. We shall want blood and other specimens for analysis so shall we say nine-thirty after dinner? And incidentally,’ he added, ‘you may dine in private or with other patients in this, the main block. Name your preference.’

  ‘The chalet.’ He hesitated. ‘One is allowed to mix?’

  The Professor laughed. ‘But of course.’

  ‘Do I know anyone here?’

  ‘It is possible. All the world comes here.’

  ‘But there is no public list of . . . guests?’

  Hancke paused. ‘No, m’sieur. There is no public list of guests. But you may meet people in the grounds, walking. You bump into each other at the pool. There are steam baths and reading rooms. You ought not to be lonely.’

  ‘Can I visit my neighbours?’

  The Professor shrugged his shoulders. ‘People pay for privacy. But it may be that you exchange greetings by the water’s edge in the evening. I would not really advise formal visiting.’

  ‘Professor. I am bad at names. That is another thing. Facts seem to slip from my mind. Someone may introduce me to someone and then I’ll forget the name. It is embarrassing and I see that I shall have three or four neighbours. Who are they?’

  Hancke looked at him curiously. ‘Forgetting names is common. No cause for alarm. Just a sign of being over-tired. Of an overloaded brain.’ He hesitated. ‘Still there is no reason for being over professionally secretive about men whom you are bound to meet before morning. On one side you have Mr. Charles W. E. Miller Junior, an American. On the other there is Señor Tomas Martinez, a Spanish gentleman from Ronda. The other two chalets are empty.’ Hancke stroked his chin thoughtfully. ‘Professor Juin is my old friend and asked that I put you by the pool. It costs more and is less in demand but perhaps you wish to go somewhere else. There are a few rooms empty both in the main block and in the woods.’

  Grant measured his words. ‘I’ll stay. Unless I’m intruding that is. Perhaps the other two are buddies.’

  Hancke shook his head. ‘I shouldn’t think so. Although they did both ask for a suite by the pool. But of course they have been here before and know the ropes and Martinez dislikes woods while Mr. Miller has a preference for what we call le petit-cercle. You will like them. Very cultivated people.’

  Grant prepared to go. ‘I’ll walk back. A little exercise.’

  ‘Dr. Grant.’ Professor Hancke’s voice rapped with authority. ‘We have few regulations, but I must ask you not to leave the grounds without checking out at Reception. And I must also ask that you receive no visitors without permission. Tranquillity, as I said, is of the essence, and I would prefer that you lived very quietly for the next few days.’ He paused to light a Camel. ‘And do not forget your appointment with my pathologist after dinner. Among other tests he will be doing a lumbar puncture. You will go to bed when he is finished and I shall see you in the morning. Understood?’

  Grant nodded briefly. ‘Unders
tood.’

  As he returned to his quarters he passed Miller sunning himself near the water. The Admiral had shown him photographs and the man was unmistakable. He radiated power and Grant contented himself with a brief nod.

  ‘Say!’

  He turned round. The American was standing up and holding out his hand. ‘Charles W. E. Miller Junior, sir. I guess we’re neighbours for a spell.’

  The man’s grip was firm and his fingers felt like leather. ‘Hi,’ said Grant quietly. ‘Grant, David. I’ve just been getting the works.’

  Miller smiled broadly. ‘The Professor doesn’t miss much. Which is why I have a check-up at the beginning of every European vacation.’ He paused. ‘And even allowing for all this it comes cheaper than in the States.’

  Grant stubbed out his cigar in a porcelain waste bucket near a cluster of bush roses. ‘See you later, sir.’

  Miller looked at him with a twinkle in his eye. ‘Look after yourself.’

  As Grant closed the door of his bedroom he could still see Miller through the window. The man was reading the Financial Times and a copy of the New York Herald Tribune lay crumpled at his feet.

  He stretched out in bed and closed his eyes. He could sleep to the drop of a hat and waken on the hour.

  Dinner was served on the stroke of eight and shortly after nine-thirty the pathologist arrived with a trolley load of misery. Using disposable syringes he withdrew samples of blood for at least five separate checks. And then he bowed apologetically. ‘The lumbar puncture, m’sieur. Be so good as to sit on this stool. Place your forearms on your knees and lean forward.’

  Grant detested L.P.s and loathed the squirming sense of nausea which swept over him as he felt the long needle slide between his vertebrae.

  This time the man used a local anaesthetic and the room was stinking with the smell of ether as Grant saw him lift the six-inch long needle and thrust it into his back. He felt a grating sensation as it rubbed against bone and then there was a slow sigh of satisfaction as the pathologist grunted: ‘Bien! Bull’s-eye first time.’

  He could hear the drip of cerebro-spinal fluid trickling into a test tube and then abruptly the man whipped out the needle, dabbed the puncture wound with collodion and handed Grant two sleeping pills. ‘Professor Hancke has also ordered this, sir, and he asked me to stay here until you are asleep.’

  ‘What are they?’ Grant hated sleeping pills.

  ‘Tuinal. Very safe and very effective.’

  Grant glanced at the row of sealed specimens on the tray. It reminded him of some of his experiences with Professor Juin when they had been working on nerve gases and building up his immunity. He swallowed the capsules and brushed his teeth.

  The pathologist switched on a recorder and Grant recognised the overture to Die Fledermaus as he rolled on to the bed and closed his eyes. Outside he could hear the hum of voices and caught the throaty rumble which was Miller laughing. The other man was a stranger. Probably the Spaniard.

  His thoughts became confused.

  Maya would be rounding off dinner in the flat. And Stefanie? Still with Sultry, he hoped. Maria Suza’s teeth were too white and her mouth too large, but he loved her lipstick. And Sultry was best of all. A lean creature who reminded him of a snake with legs. Though Hancke was no fool.

  Probably the gardeners saw to it that patients stayed put unless they had clearance from Reception. And what a dive that was. No wonder it cost a grand per week minimal.

  And the popsy who had brought him dinner looked like being a push-over. Co-operative. Her hair had been given a lilac rinse which made her long sleek eyelashes look blacker than ever.

  And the lake was blue. Why in heck did a man stay in Britain where colours were always grey? Blue made you feel good.

  He rolled on to his side and felt the coolness of the pillow smooth against his cheek. Like Maya’s magnolia breasts. Smooth and silky.

  The pathologist lifted his tray and walked out.

  Thirty minutes later Miller and Tomas Martinez stood at the side of Grant’s bed. ‘Well?’ asked Miller.

  The Spaniard smiled confidently. ‘A magnificent animal. But very well. Arrange to introduce him tomorrow. We can have drinks down here by the pool.’

  ‘And then?’

  Tomas carefully lit a Hedges and Butler’s Virginia Number 1. ‘By this time tomorrow night we shall have had our first session.’

  Chapter Seven – ‘Between them they had stolen an hour.’

  Grant wakened to the urgency of a grip on his shoulder. The lilac-haired popsy was leaning over the bed and her smile was quite something. ‘Your breakfast, sir.’

  He watched her draw the curtains and open the door. Sunshine was pouring in and her skirt was transparent. Her thighs shone black against her uniform and he guessed that she used talc powder for underwear.

  He ran his Remington Lektronic razor over his face, stood in the shower and wrapped himself in a housecoat. Miller was sitting thirty odd paces away and Grant could hear him laughing as he chatted to one of the maids.

  The croissants were crisp and the tea hot. Two boiled eggs showed that Hancke wasn’t fanatical about so-called ‘continental’ breakfasts and the marmalade had been matured in cask until it was almost chestnut brown, with a full bodied flavour which titillated appetite.

  He leaned back and closed his eyes. The tuinal had left him with a hangover and he needed another two hours. The beach chair was deeply comfortable and he stretched out lazily, a towel draped around his head like a burnous.

  The sun was beginning to sting when he awakened to a noise. Miller was walking towards the chalet, his sandals crunching on granite chips as he strolled on to Grant’s patio.

  ‘Drinking time,’ he said briefly. ‘Or am I busting in when you want to be lazy?’

  Grant rose to his feet. It was already eleven o’clock. ‘See you in ten minutes.’

  The American sat down and looked around. ‘Tell me to go the hell out of it if I’m in your way.’

  Grant hated being wakened by strangers. ‘Then do that,’ he said. ‘I’ll join you in ten minutes.’

  Miller broke into a loud guffaw. ‘I’ve asked them to bring drinks to my place. Introduce you to our other neighbour.’

  Grant watched him laze across to his own quarters and marked a white coated house steward point in their direction from the administrative block. He was carrying a tray and Grant was curious to see what Miller had ordered.

  He soused his head in water, slicked back his hair and stepped into a seasoned pair of cavalry twills. He slung a towel round his shoulders and fumbled for a pair of canvas deck shoes. And then he hesitated. Why should Miller suddenly make the running?

  And who was the Spaniard?

  He clipped his Parker 51 into his belt and dropped a box of ‘special’ matches into his pocket.

  The two men were watching the waiter pour coffee when he arrived, and Tomas stood up with almost exaggerated politeness as Miller made the introductions. ‘Delighted. This place is excellent. But at times I feel lonely. Which is why I prefer le petit-cercle. It is easier to make friends.’

  Miller stirred a portion of thick cream and lifted a honey wafer. ‘Martinez is a psychologist and they call Grant “doctor”. You should have plenty common ground.’

  Grant studied the Spaniard carefully. His face meant nothing. It had never been filed in Departmental archives. But the body was unforgettable: thick set, squat and immensely powerful. The unlined face contrasted with sagging pouches under each eye and his beetling eyebrows had been brushed upwards to etch against the smoothness of the man’s skull. ‘But not a proper doctor,’ he said abruptly. ‘Labs and things. Research.’

  Tomas shrugged his shoulders expressively. ‘Then you have missed much. The most important thing in life is contact with life itself. With people.’

  ‘But psychologists work with abnormal people,’ drawled Miller. ‘How can a man get a kick out of working with nuts?’

  The Spaniard smiled confidently.
‘Because we are all, as you say, nuts. Because there is no such thing as a normal person. If there were’ . . . he laughed aloud . . . ‘the world would be quite incredibly boring. It is abnormalities which give zest for living.’

  ‘Such as what?’ said Grant.

  ‘Such as women’s fashion, if you like,’ said the Spaniard. ‘A simple example, but it distorts the figure into something quite different from reality. And then they dye their hair, paint their faces and make themselves abnormal. With the result that all we men sit up on our hind legs to beg for their favours. But we are really falling in love with the abnormal. Certainly not with reality.’

  ‘Okay.’ Miller sounded impatient. ‘I’ll give you that. But how about mental abnormalities? There’s nothing funny about psychos.’

  ‘Nothing funny, no. But interesting, yes. They hit the headlines. They give entertainment to spectators. All the world loves a mass murderer. All the world gasps when it reads about rape or seduction. But it wishes that it could do the same. And then occasionally the mask slips. A little here, a little there, and more reality shines through to be seen for what it is. Some sort of abnormality, perversion, sadism, lesbianism or what have you. Everyone is abnormal. The only thing is that some are more clever than others at concealing truth.’

  Miller turned to Grant. ‘This is an old story between Martinez and me. He reckons he can cure anyone with his psychiatric nonsense but I insist that there’s nothing functional about me. I’ve got a male climacteric and I don’t like it. I’ve got rheumatism. And that isn’t psychological either. And I’ve also got a gall stone which can give me hell. So don’t try and sell that stuff about trickcycling to someone with rheumatism and gall stones.’

  The Spaniard sipped his coffee. ‘I come here because I think it’s the best hotel in Europe. I like the atmosphere. And I like Hancke to check up on my heart from time to time. But it is wear and tear I’m treating. Not a neurosis.’

  Miller slapped the table. ‘Stop needling me. I’m as normal as you are. Or Grant here.’