In every one of these pictures, the dominant figure, whether it stood for Lincoln, Napoleon, Washington, or some other general or ruler; whatever uniform or regalia clothed its human shape, had the same head. The heads of the fighting men in all these pictures were those of dogs, all alike in any one picture, but differing from one to another; terriers or wolf-hounds or mastiffs or what not. The heads of any men not soldiers were those of oxen or sheep or horses or some other mild sort of animal. The head of the dominant figure I then took to be invented, legendary, fabulous—oh, that’s not the word I want.’
‘Mythological?’ I suggested, the only interruption I interjected into his entire narrative.
Yes, mythological, he returned. I thought it was a mythological creature. The long-jawed head, like a hound’s; the little pointed yellow beard under the chin; the black, naked ears, like a hairless dog’s ears and yet not doggy, either; the ridge of hair on top of the skull; the triangular shape of the whole head; the close-set, small, beady, terribly knowing eyes; the brilliant patches of color on either side of the muzzle; all these made a piercing impression of individuality and yet seemed not so much actual as mythological.
It takes a great deal longer to tell what we saw on that third floor than it took to see it. All round the galleries under the pictures were cases of drawers, solidly built in one length like a counter and about as high. Thwaite went down one side of the gallery and Rivvin down the other, pulling them out and slamming them shut again. All I saw held photographs of pictures. But Rivvin and Thwaite were taking no chances and looked into every drawer. I had plenty of time to gaze about me and circulated at a sort of cantering trot around the green-velvet miniature sofas and settees placed back to back down the middle of the floor-space. It seemed to me that Mr Hengist Eversleigh was a great master of figure and landscape drawing, color, light and perspective.
As we went down the duplicate staircase at the other corner from where we came up Thwaite said:
‘Now for those bedrooms.’
By the stair we found another valet’s or footman’s apartment, sitting-room, bedroom and bathroom, just like the one by the other stair. And there were four more between them, under the studio and over the lounging-rooms.
On the east and west sides of the building were ‘the’ bedrooms, twelve apartments, six on each side; each of the twelve made up of a bedroom, a dressing-room and a bathroom.
The beds were about three feet long, and proportionately narrow and low. The furniture, bureaus, tables, chairs, chests-of-drawers and the rest, harmonized with the dimensions of the beds, except the cheval-glasses, and wall-mirrors which reached the ceilings. The bathtubs were almost pools, about nine feet by six and all of three feet deep, each a single block of porcelain.
The shapes and sizes and styles of the furniture were duplicated all through, but the colors varied, so that the twelve suites were in twelve colors; black, white, gray and brown, and light and dark yellow, red, green and blue; wall coverings, hangings, carpets and rugs all to match in each suite. The panels of the walls had the same picture, however, repeated over and over, two, four or six times to a room and in every suite alike.
This picture was the design I had failed to make out on the labels of the bottles. It was set as a medallion in each panel of the blue or red walls, or whatever other color they were. The background of the picture was a vague sort of palish sky and blurred, hazy clouds above tropical-looking foliage. The chief figure was an angel, in flowing white robes, floating on silvery-plumed wings widespread. The angel’s face was a human face, the only human face in any picture in that palace, the face of a grave, gentle, rather girlish young man.
The creature the angel was leading was a huge, bulky crocodile, with a gold collar about its neck, and a gold chain from that, not to the angel’s hand, but to a gold fetter about his wrist.
Under each picture was a verse of four lines, always the same.
‘Let not your baser nature drag you down.
Utter no whimper, not one sigh or moan,
Hopeless of respite, solace, palm or crown
Live out your life unflinching and alone.’
I saw it so often I shall never forget it.
The bathrooms were luxurious in the extreme, a needle-bath, a shower-bath, two basins of different sizes in each, besides the sunk pool-tub. The dressing-rooms had each a variety of wardrobes. One or two we opened, finding in each several suits of little clothes, as if for a boy under six years old. One closet had shelf above shelf of small shoes, not much over four inches long.
‘Evidently,’ Thwaite remarked, ‘Hengist Eversleigh is a dwarf, whatever else he is.’
Rivvin left the wardrobes and closets alone after the first few.
Each bedroom had in it nothing but the bed and on each side of it a sort of wine-cooler, like a pail with a lid, but bigger, set on three short legs so that its top was level with the bed. We opened most of them; every one we opened was filled with ice, bedded in which were several half-pint bottles. Every one of the twelve beds had the covers carefully turned down. Not one showed any sign of having been occupied. The wine-coolers were solid silver but we left them where they were. As Thwaite remarked, it would have taken two full-sized freight cars to contain the silver we had seen.
In the dressing-rooms the articles like brushes and combs on the bureaus were all of gold, and most set with jewels. Rivvin began to fill a bag with those entirely of metal, but even he made no attempt to tear the backs off the brushes or to waste energy on any other breakage. By the time we had scanned the twelve suites Rivvin could barely carry his bag.
The front room on the south side of the building was a library full of small, showily-bound books in glass-fronted cases all the way to the ceiling, covering every wall except where the two doors and six windows opened. There were small, narrow tables, the height of those in the dressing-rooms. There were magazines on them and papers. Thwaite opened a bookcase and I another and we looked at three or four books. Each had in it a book-plate with the device of the angel and the crocodile.
Rivvin did not find the electric button in the main hallway and we went down the great broad, curving stair by our electric candles. Rivvin turned to the left and we found ourselves in the banquet hall as Thwaite had called it, a room all of forty by thirty and gorgeous beyond any description. The diminutive table, not three feet square, was a slab of crystal-white glass set on silver-covered legs. The tiny armchair, the only chair in the big room, was solid silver, with a crimson cushion loose in it.
The sideboards and glass-fronted closets paralyzed us. One had fine china and cut glass; wonderful china and glass. But four held a table service of gold, all of pure gold; forks, knives, spoons, plates, bowls, platters, cups, everything; all miniature, but a profusion of everything. We hefted the pieces. They were gold. All the pieces were normal in shape except that instead of wine-glasses, goblets and tumblers were things like broad gravyboats on stems or short feet, all lopsided, with one projecting edge like the mouth of a pitcher, only broader and flatter. There were dozens of these. Rivvin filled two bags with what two bags would hold. The three bags were all we three could carry, must have been over a hundred and fifty pounds apiece.
‘We’ll have to make two trips to the wall,’ Thwaite said. ‘You brought six bags, didn’t you, Rivvin?’
Rivvin grunted.
At the foot of the grand staircase Rivvin found the electric button and flooded the magnificent stairway with light.
The stair itself was all white marble, the rails yellow marble, and the paneling of the dado malachite. But the main feature was the painting above the landing. This was the most amazing of all the paintings we had come upon.
I remembered something like it, an advertisement of a root-beer or talcum powder, or some other proprietary article, representing all the nations of the earth and their rulers in the foreground congratulating the orator.
This picture was about twenty feet wide and higher than its width. There was a
throne, a carved and jeweled throne, set on an eminence. There was a wide view on either side of the throne, and all filled with human figures with animal heads, an infinite throng, all facing the throne. Nearest it were figures that seemed meant for all the presidents and kings and queens and emperors of the world. I recognized the robes or uniforms of some of them. Some had heads taken from their national coat of arms, like the heads of the Austrian and Russian eagles. All these figures were paying homage to the figure that stood before the throne; the same monster we had seen in place of Lincoln or Washington or Napoleon in the paintings upstairs.
He stood proudly with one foot on a massive crocodile. He was dressed in a sort of revolutionary uniform, low shoes, with gold buckles, white stockings and knee-breeches, a red waistcoat, and a bright blue coat. His head was the same beast-head of the other pictures, triangular and strange, which I then thought mythological.
Above and behind the throne floated on outspread silver wings the white-robed angel with the Sir Galahad face.
Rivvin shut off the lights almost instantly, but even in the few breaths while I looked I saw it all.
The three sacks of swag we put down by the front door.
The room opposite the banquet-hall was a music room, with an organ and a piano, both with keys and keyboards far smaller than usual; great cases of music books; an array of brass instruments and cellos and more than a hundred violin cases. Thwaite opened one or two.
‘These’d be enough to make our fortune,’ he said. ‘If we could get away with them.’
Beyond the music-room was the study. It had in it four desks, miniature in size and the old-fashioned model with drawers below, a lid to turn down and form a writing surface, and a sort of bookcase above with a peaked top. All were carved and on the lids in the carving we read:
JOURNAL
MUSIC
CRITICISM
BUSINESS
Thwaite opened the desk marked BUSINESS and pulled open the drawers.
In pigeon-holes of the desk were bundles of new, clean greenbacks and treasury notes of higher denominations; five each of fives, tens, twenties, fifties and hundreds. Thwaite tossed one bundle of each to me and Rivvin and pocketed the rest.
He bulged.
One drawer had a division down the middle. One half was full of ten-dollar gold pieces, the other half of twenties.
‘I’ve heard of misers,’ said Thwaite, ‘but this beats hell. Think of that crazy dwarf, a prisoner in this palace, running his hands through this and gloating over the cash he can never use.’
Rivvin loaded a bag with the coin and when he had them all he could barely lift the bag. Leaving it where it lay before the desk he strode the length of the room and tried the door at the end.
It was fast.
Instantly Rivvin and Thwaite were like two terriers after a rat.
‘This is where the diamonds are,’ Thwaite declared, ‘and Mr Hengist Eversleigh is in there with them.’
He and Rivvin conferred a while together.
‘You kneel low,’ Thwaite whispered. ‘Duck when you open it. He’ll fire over you. Then you’ve got him. See?’
Rivvin tip-toed to the door, knelt and tried key after key in the lock.
There were at least twenty bulbs in the chandelier of that room and the light beat down on him. His red neck dew-lapped over the low collar of his lavenderish shirt, his great broad back showed vast and powerful.
On the other side of the doorway Thwaite stood, his finger at the electric button.
Each had his slung-shot in his left hand. They had spun the cylinders of their revolvers and stuck them in their belts in front before Rivvin began work on the lock.
I heard a click.
Rivvin put up his hand.
The lights went out.
In the black dark we stood, stood until I could almost see the outlines of the windows; less black against the intenser blackness.
Soon I heard another click, and the grate of an opened door.
Then a kind of snarl, a thump like a blow, a sort of strangling gasp, and the cushiony sounds of a struggle.
Thwaite turned on the lights.
Rivvin was in the act of staggering up from his knees. I saw a pair of small, pink hands, the fingers intertwined, locked behind Rivvin’s neck. They slipped apart as I caught sight of them.
I had a vision of small feet in little patent leather silver-buckled low-shoes, of green socks, of diminutive legs in white trousers flashing right and left in front of Rivvin, as if he held by the throat a struggling child.
Next I saw that his arms were thrown up, wide apart.
He collapsed and fell back his full length with a dull crash.
Then I saw the snout!
Saw the wolf-jaws vised on his throat!
Saw the blood welling round the dazzling white fangs, and recognized the reality of the sinister head I had seen over and over in his pictures.
Rivvin made the fish-out-of-water contortions of a man being killed.
Thwaite brought his slung-shot down on the beast-head skull.
The blow was enough to crush in a steel cylinder.
The beast wrinkled its snout and shook its head from side to side, worrying like a bull-dog at Rivvin’s throat.
Again Thwaite struck and again and again. At each blow the portentous head oscillated viciously. The awful thing about it to me was the two blue bosses on each side of the muzzle, like enamel, shiny and hard looking; and the hideous welt of red, like fresh sealing-wax, down between them and along the snout.
Rivvin’s struggles grew weaker as the great teeth tore at his throat. He was dead before Thwaite’s repeated blows drove in the splintered skull and the clenched jaws relaxed, the snout crinkling and contracting as the dog-teeth slid from their hold.
Thwaite gave the monster two or three more blows, touched Rivvin and fairly dashed out of the room, shouting.
‘You stay here!’
I heard the sound of prying and sawing. There alone I looked but once at the dead cracksman.
The thing that had killed him was the size of a four to six year old child, but more stockily built, looked entirely human up to the neck, and was dressed in a coat of bright dark blue, a vest of crimson velvet, and white duck trousers. As I looked the muzzle wriggled for the last time, the jaws fell apart and the carcass rolled sideways. It was the very duplicate in miniature of the figure in the big picture on the staircase landing.
Thwaite came dashing back. Without any sign of any qualm he searched Rivvin and tossed me two or three bundles of greenbacks.
He stood up.
He laughed.
‘Curiosity,’ he said, ‘will be the death of me.’
Then he stripped the clothing from the dead monster, kneeling by it.
The beast-hair stopped at the shirt collar. Below that the skin was human, as was the shape, the shape of a forty-year-old man, strong and vigorous and well-made, only dwarfed to the smallness of a child.
Across the hairy breast was tatooed in blue,
‘HENGIST EVERSLEIGH’
‘Hell,’ said Thwaite.
He stood up and went to the fatal door. Inside he found the electric button.
The room was small and lined with cases of little drawers, tier on tier, rows of brass knobs on mahogany.
Thwaite opened one.
It was velvet lined and grooved like a jeweler’s tray and contained rings, the settings apparently emeralds.
Thwaite dumped them into one of the empty bags he had taken from Rivvin’s corpse.
The next case was of similar drawers of rings set with rubies. The first of these Thwaite dumped in with the emeralds.
But then he flew round the room pulling out drawers and slamming them shut, until he came upon trays of unset diamonds. These he emptied into his sack to the last of them, then diamond rings on them, other jewelry set with diamonds, then rubies and emeralds till the sack was full.
He tied its neck, had me open a second sack and was dum
ping drawer after drawer into that when suddenly he stopped.
His nose worked, worked horridly like that of the dead monster.
I thought he was going crazy and was beginning to laugh nervously, was on the verge of hysterics when he said:
‘Smell! Try what you smell.’
I sniffed.
‘I smell smoke,’ I said.
‘‘So do I’ he agreed. ‘This place is afire.’
‘And we locked in!’ I exclaimed.
‘Locked in?’ he sneered. ‘Bosh. I broke open the front door the instant I was sure they were dead. Come! Drop that empty bag. This is no time for haggling.’
We had to step between the two corpses. Rivvin was horridly dead. The colors had all faded from the snout. The muzzle was all mouse-color.
When we had hold of the bag of coin, Thwaite turned off the electric lights and we struggled out with that and the bag of jewels, and went out into the hallway full of smoke.
‘We can carry only these,’ Thwaite warned me. ‘We’ll have to leave the rest.’
I shouldered the bag of coin, and followed him down the steps, across a gravel road, and, oh the relief of treading turf and feeling the fog all about me.
At the wall Thwaite turned and looked back.
‘No chance to try for those other bags,’ he said.
In fact the red glow was visible at that distance and was fast becoming a glare.
I heard shouts.
We got the bags over the wall and reached the car. Thwaite cranked up at once and we were off.
How we went I could not guess, nor in what directions, nor even how long. Ours was the only vehicle on the roads we darted along.
When the dawn light was near enough for me to see Thwaite stopped the car.
The Stuff of Dreams: The Weird Stories of Edward Lucas White (Dover Horror Classics) Page 22