“I asked: ‘What do you mean?’
“He said: ‘I’ll begin from the time we agreed I’d better go home and fight. I went to the theater. I purposely stayed out late. There was no unseen whisperer at the door when I let myself in. I saw nothing as I went upstairs to the library. I mixed a stiff highball, sat down and began to read. I had turned on every light in the room. It was two o’clock.
“‘The clock struck the half hour. It roused me from the book. I smelled a curious fragrance, unfamiliar, evocative of strange images—it made me think of an unknown lily, opening in the night, under moon rays, in a secret pool, among age-old ruins encircled by a desert. I looked up and around seeking its source.
“‘I saw the shadow.
“‘It was no longer as though cast against curtains or walls. It stood plain, a dozen feet from me. Sharp cut, in the room. It was in profile. It stood motionless. Its face was a girl’s, delicate, exquisite. I could see its hair, coiled around the little head and two braids of deeper shadow falling between the round, tip-tilted breasts. It was the shadow of a tall girl, a lithe girl, small-hipped, slender-footed. It moved. It began to dance. It was neither black nor gray as I had thought when first I saw it. It was faintly rosy—a rose-pearl shadow. Beautiful, seductive—in a sense no living woman could be. It danced, and trembled—and vanished. I heard a whisper: ‘I am here.’ It was behind me dancing—dancing…dimly I could see the room through it.
“‘Dancing,’ he said, ‘weaving—weaving my shroud—’ he laughed. ‘But a highly embroidered one, Bill.’
“He said he felt a stirring of desire such as he had never felt for any woman. And with it a fear, a horror such as he had never known. He said it was as though a door had opened over whose threshold he might pass into some undreamed of Hell. The desire won. He leaped for that dancing, rosy shadow. And shadow and fragrance were gone snuffed out. He sat again with his book, waiting. Nothing happened. The clock struck three—the half-hour—four. He went to his room. He undressed, and lay upon the bed.
“He said: ‘Slowly, like a rhythm, the fragrance began. It pulsed—quicker and quicker. I sat up. The rosy shadow was sitting at the foot of my bed. I strained toward it. I could not move. I thought I heard it whisper—‘Not yet…not yet…’”
“Progressive hallucination,” de Keradel said. “From sight to hearing, from hearing to smell. And then the color centers of the brain become involved. All this is obvious. Yes?”
Bill paid no attention; continued: “He went to sleep, abruptly. He awakened next morning with a curious exaltation of spirit and an equally curious determination to evade me. He had but one desire—that the day should end so that he could meet the shadow. I asked, somewhat sarcastically: ‘But how about the other girl, Dick?’
“He answered, plainly puzzled: ‘What other girl, Bill?’ I said: ‘That other girl you were so much in love with. The one whose name you couldn’t tell me.’
“He said, wonderingly: ‘I don’t remember any other girl.’”
I stole a swift glance at the Demoiselle. She was looking demurely down at her plate. Dr. Lowell asked:
“First, he could not tell you her name because of some compulsion? Second, he told you he remembered nothing of her?”
Bill said: “That’s what he told me, sir.”
I saw the color drain from Lowell’s face once more, and saw again a lightning swift glance pass between the Demoiselle and her father.
De Keradel said:
“A previous hallucination negatived by a stronger one.”
Bill said:
“Maybe. At any rate, he passed the day in a mood of mingled expectancy and dread. ‘As though,’ he told me, ‘I waited for the prelude of some exquisite event, and at the same time as though for the opening of a door to a cell of the condemned.’ And he was even more resolved not to see me, yet he could not be easy until he knew whether I had or had not found something that might account for his experiences. After he had talked to me he had gone out, not for golf as he had told Simpson, but to a place where I could not reach him.
“He went home to dinner. He thought that during dinner he detected fugitive flittings from side to side, furtive stirrings of the shadow. He felt that his every movement was being watched. He had almost panic impulse to run out of the house ‘while there was still time,’ as he put it. Against that impulse was a stronger urge to stay, something that kept whispering of strange delights, unknown joys. He said—‘As though I had two souls, one filled with loathing and hatred for the shadow and crying out against slavery to it. And the other not caring—if only first it might taste of those joys it promised.’
“He went to the library—and the shadow came as it had come the night before. It came close to him, but not so close that he could touch it. The shadow began to sing, and he had no desire to touch it; no desire except to sit listening forever to that singing. He told me, ‘It was the shadow of song, as the singer was the shadow of woman. It was as though it came through some unseen curtain…out of some other space. It was sweet as the fragrance. It was one with the fragrance, honey sweet…and each shadowy note dripped evil.’ He said: ‘If there were words to the song, I did not know them, did not hear them. I heard only the melody…promising…promising…’
“I asked: ‘Promising what?’
“He said: ‘I don’t know…delights that no living man had ever known…that would be mine—if…”
“I asked: ‘If what?’
“He answered: ‘I did not know…not then. But there was something I must do to attain them…but what it was I did not know…not then.’
“Singing died and shadow and fragrance were gone. He waited awhile, and then went to his bedroom. The shadow did not reappear, although he thought it there, watching him. He sank again into that quick, deep and dreamless sleep. He awakened with a numbness of mind, an unaccustomed lethargy. Fragments of the shadow’s song kept whispering through his mind. He said: ‘They seemed to make a web between reality and unreality. I had only one clear normal thought, and that was keen impatience to get the last of your reports. When you gave me them, that which hated and feared the shadow wept, but that which desired its embrace rejoiced.’
“Night came the third night. At dinner, he had no perception of lurking watcher. Nor in the library. He felt a vast disappointment and as vast a relief. He went to his bedroom. Nothing there. An hour or so later he turned in. It was a warm night, so he covered himself only with the sheet.
“He told me: ‘I do not think I had been asleep. I am sure I was not asleep. But suddenly I felt the fragrance creep over me and I heard a whisper, close to my ear. I sat up—
“‘The shadow lay beside me.
“‘It was sharply outlined, pale rose upon the sheet. It was leaning toward me, one arm upon the pillow, cupped hand supporting its head. I could see the pointed nails of that hand, thought I could see the gleam of shadowy eyes. I summoned all my strength and laid my hand on it. I felt only the cool sheet.
“‘The shadow leaned closer…whispering…whispering…and now I understood it…and then it was she told me her name…and other things…and what I must do to win those delights she had been promising me. But I must not do this thing until she had done thus and so, and I must do it at the moment she kissed me and I could feel her lips on mine—’
“I asked, sharply: ‘What were you to do?’
“He answered: ‘Kill myself.’”
Dr. Lowell pushed back his chair, stood trembling: “Good God! And he did kill himself! Dr. Bennett, I do not see why you did not consult me in this case. Knowing what I told you of—”
Bill interrupted: “Precisely because of that, sir. I had my reasons for wishing to handle it alone. Reasons which I am prepared to defend before you.”
Before Lowell could answer, he went on swiftly: “I told him: ‘It’s nothing but hallucination, Dick; a phantom of the imagination. Nevertheless, it has reached a stage I don’t like. You must take dinner with me, and stay here for the ni
ght at least. If you won’t consent, frankly I’m going to use force to make you.’
“He looked at me for a moment with the subtle amusement in his eyes intensified. He said, quietly: ‘But if it’s only hallucination, Bill, what good will that do? I’ll still have my imagination with me, won’t I? What’s to keep it from conjuring up Brittis here just as well as at home?’
“I said: ‘All that be damned. Here you stay.’
“He said: ‘It goes. I’d like to try the experiment.’
“We had dinner. I wouldn’t let him speak again of the shadow. I slipped a strong sleepmaker into a drink. In fact, I doped him. In a little while he began to get heavy-eyed. I put him to bed. I said to myself: ‘Fellow, if you come out of that in less than ten hours then I’m a horse doctor.’
“I had to go out. It was a little after midnight when I returned. I listened at Dick’s door, debating whether to run the risk of disturbing him by going in. I decided I wouldn’t. At nine o’clock the next morning, I went up to look at him. The room was empty. I asked the servants when Mr. Ralston had gone. None knew. When I called up his house, the body had already been taken away. There was nothing I could do, and I wanted time to think. Time, unhampered by the police, to make some investigations of my own, in the light of certain other things which Ralston had told me and which I have not related since they are not directly related to the symptoms exhibited. The symptoms,” Bill turned to de Keradel, “were the only matters in which you were interested—professionally?”
De Keradel said: “Yes. But I still see nothing in your recital to warrant any diagnosis than hallucination. Perhaps in these details you have withheld I might—”
I had been thinking, and interrupted him rudely enough: “Just a moment. A little while back, Bill, you said this Brittis, shadow or illusion, or what not, told him that she was no demon—no Succubus. You started to quote him—‘She said she was—’ then stopped. What did she say she was?”
Bill seemed to hesitate, then said, slowly: “She said she had been a girl, a Bretonne until she had been changed into—a shadow of Ys.”
The Demoiselle threw back her head, laughing unrestrainedly. She put a hand on my arm: “A shadow of that wicked Dahut the White! Alain de Carnac—one of my shadows!”
De Keradel’s face was imperturbable. He said: “So. Now do I see. Well, Dr. Bennett, if I accept your theory of witchcraft, what was the purpose behind it?”
Bill answered: “Money, I think. I’m hoping to be sure soon.”
De Keradel leaned back, regarding Lowell almost benevolently. He said: “Not necessarily money. To quote Dr. Caranac, it could perhaps be only art for art’s sake. Self-expression of a true artist. Pride. I once knew well—what without doubt the superstitious would have called her a witch—who had that pride of workmanship. This will interest you, Dr. Lowell. It was in Prague—”
I saw Lowell start, violently; de Keradel went blandly on: “A true artist, who practiced her art, or used her wisdom—or, if you prefer, Dr. Bennett, practiced her witchcraft—solely for the satisfaction it gave her as an artist. Among other things, so it was whispered, she could imprison something of one she had killed within little dolls made in that one’s image, animating them; and then make them do her will—” He leaned toward Lowell, solicitously—“Are you ill, Dr. Lowell?”
Lowell was paper white; his eyes fixed on de Keradel and filled with incredulous recognition. He recovered himself; said in a firm voice: “A pang I sometimes suffer. It is nothing. Go on.”
De Keradel said: “A truly great—ah, witch, Dr. Bennett. Although I would not call her witch but mistress of ancient secrets, lost wisdom. She went from Prague to this city. Arriving, I tried to find her. I learned where she had lived, but, alas! She and her niece had been burned to death—with her dolls, their home destroyed. A most mysterious fire. I was rather relieved. Frankly, I was glad, for I had been a little afraid of the doll-maker. I hold no grudge against those who encompassed her destruction—if it were deliberate. In fact—this may sound callous but you, my dear Dr. Lowell, will understand I am sure—in fact, I feel a certain gratitude to them—if they are.”
He glanced at his watch, then spoke to the Demoiselle: “My daughter, we must be going. We are already late. The time has passed so pleasantly, so quickly—” He paused, then said with emphasis, slowly: “Had I the powers she had at her command—for powers she did have else I, de Keradel, would have felt no fear of her—I say, had I those powers, none who threatened me, none even who hampered me in what I had determined to do, would live long enough to become a serious menace. I am sure—” he looked sharply at Lowell, at Helen and Bill, let his pale eyes dwell for a moment on mine—“I am sure that even gratitude could not save them—nor those dear to them.”
There was an odd silence. Bill broke it. He said, somberly: “Fair enough, de Keradel.”
The Demoiselle arose, smiling. Helen led her to the hall. No one would have thought they hated each other. While de Keradel bade courteous farewell to Lowell, the Demoiselle drew close to me. She whispered:
“I will be awaiting you tomorrow, Alain de Carnac. At eight. We have much to say to each other. Do not fail me.”
She slipped something in my hand. De Keradel said: “Soon I shall be ready for my greatest experiment. I look for you to witness it, Dr. Lowell. You too, Dr. Caranac…you…it will especially interest. Till then—adieu.”
He kissed Helen’s hand; bowed to Bill. I wondered with vague misgivings why he had not included them in the invitation.
At the door the Demoiselle turned, touched Helen lightly on the cheek. She said: “Some there be that shadows kiss…”
Her laughter rippled like little waves as she swept down the steps after her father and into the waiting automobile.
CHAPTER VII
THE DOLL-MAKER’S LOVER
Briggs closed the door and walked away. We four stood in the hall, silent. Suddenly Helen stamped a foot. She said, furiously:
“Damn her! She tried to make me feel like a slave girl. As if I were one of your lesser concubines, Alan, whom it amused your Queen to notice.”
I grinned, for it was almost exactly what I had thought. She said, viciously:
“I saw her whispering to you. I suppose she was asking you to come up’n see her sometime.” She gave a Mae West wriggle.
I opened my hand and looked at what the Demoiselle had slipped into it. It was an extremely thin silver bracelet’s half-inch band almost as flexible as heavy silk. Set in it was a polished, roughly oval black pebble. Incised upon its smoothed outer face, then filled in with some red material, was the symbol of the power of the ancient god of Ocean, who had many names long centuries before the Greeks named him Poseidon; the three-tined fork; his trident with which he governed his billows. It was one of those mysterious talismans of the swarthy little Azilian-Tardenois people who some seventeen thousand years ago wiped out the tall, big-brained, fair-haired and blue-eyed Cro-Magnons, who, like them, came from none knows where into Western Europe. Along the silver band, its jaws holding the pebble, was crudely cut a winged serpent. Yes, I knew what that pebble was, right enough. But what puzzled me was the conviction that I also knew this particular stone and bracelet. That I had seen them many times before…could even read the symbol…if only I could force remembrance…
Perhaps if I put it around my wrist I would remember—
Helen struck the bracelet from my hand. She put her heel on it and ground it into the rug. She said:
“That’s the second time tonight that she-devil has tried to snap her manacles on you.”
I bent down to pick up the bracelet, and she kicked it away.
Bill stooped and retrieved it. He handed it to me and I dropped it in my pocket. Bill said, sharply:
“Pipe down, Helen! He has to go through with it. He’s probably safer than you and I are, at that.”
Helen said, passionately:
“Let her try to get him!”
She looked at me, grim
ly: “But I don’t exactly trust you with the Demoiselle, Alan. Something rotten in Denmark there…something queer between you. I wouldn’t hunger after that white fleshpot of Egypt if I were you. There’ve been a lot of misguided moths sipping at that flower.”
I flushed: “Your frankness, darling, is of your generation, and your metaphors as mixed as its morals. Nevertheless, you need not be jealous of the Demoiselle.”
That was a lie, of course. I felt the vague, inexplicable fear of her, suspicion, and a lurking, inexorable hatred—yet there was something else. She was very beautiful. Never could I love her in the way I could Helen. Still, she had something that Helen had not; something which without doubt was evil…but an evil I had drunk of long and long and long ago…and must drink of…again—and I knew a deep thirst that could be quenched only by that evil…
Helen said, quietly:
“I could not be jealous of her. I am afraid of her—not for myself but for you.”
Dr. Lowell seemed to awaken. It was plain that he was sunk in his thoughts, he had heard none of our talk. He said:
“Let us go back to the table. I have something to say.”
He walked to the stairs, and he walked like a man grown suddenly old. As we followed, Bill said to me:
“Well, de Keradel was fair enough. He gave us warning.”
I asked: “Warning of what?”
Bill answered: “Didn’t you get it? Warning not to pursue the matter of Dick’s death any further. They didn’t find out all they hoped to. But they found out enough. I wanted them to. And I did find out what I wanted.”
The A. Merritt Megapack Page 183