Image of the Beast

by Philip José Farmer

  He hung up the telephone. Heepish, who had stepped out of the room but not out of hearing range, raised his eyebrows. Childe did not feel that he had to justify himself, but, since he was using Heepish's phone, he did owe him some explanation.

  "The forces of good must use corruption to fight corruption," he said. "I occasionally have to find a number, and I send a ten to my informant, or used to; now it's a twenty, what with inflation. In this case, I suspect I've wasted my money."

  Heepish harrumphed. Childe got out quickly; he felt as if he could no longer stand this shadowy, musky place with its monsters frozen in various attitudes of attack and their horrified paralyzed victims. Nor could he endure the custodian of the museum any longer.

  Yet, when he stood at the door to say good-bye and to thank his host, he felt ashamed. Certainly, the man's hobby--passion, rather--was harmless enough and even entertaining--even emotionally purgative--for millions of children and adults who had never quite ceased being children. Though dedicated to archetypal horror and its Hollywood sophisticated developments, the house had defeated itself, hence, had a therapeutic value. Where there is a surfeit of horrors, horror becomes ho-hum.

  And this man had helped him to the best of his ability.

  He thanked Heepish and shook his hand, and perhaps Heepish felt the change in his guest, because he smiled broadly and radiated warmth and asked Childe to come back--any time.

  The door swung shut with the Inner-Sanctum creakings, but it did not propel Childe and Jeremiah into the acid-droplet mist. A breeze ruffled them, and sunshine was bright, and the sky was blue.

  Childe had not known until then how depressed and miserable he had been. Now, he blinked eyes that did not burn or weep and sucked in the precious clean air. He chortled and did a little jig arm in arm with Jeremiah. The walk back to his apartment was the most delightful walk in his life. Its delight exceeded even that of his first walk with Sybil when he was courting her. The yards and sidewalks held a surprising number of people, all enjoying the air and sun. Apparently, fewer than he--and the radio and TV experts--had thought had fled the area.

  There were, however, few cars on the streets. Wilshire Boulevard held only one auto between La Cienega and Robertson, and when they crossed Burton Way on Willaman, they could see no cars.

  However, there were great green-gray clouds piled against the mountains. Pasadena and Glendale and other inland cities were still in the fist of the smog.

  By the time he had said good-bye to Jeremiah, who turned off toward Mt. Sinai Hospital, the wind had slid to a halt, and the air was as still as a dead jellyfish again. There was a peculiar glow on the western horizon; a hush descended as if a finger had been placed against the lips of the world.

  He still felt happy as he went into the apartment building. The phone lines were busy, but he stuck it out, and, within three hundred seconds by his wristwatch, the phone rang. The voice that answered was female, low, and lovely.

  Magda Holyani was Mr. Igescu's secretary; she stressed the "Mister."

  No, Mr. Igescu could not talk to him. Mr. Igescu never talked to anybody without an appointment. No, he would not grant an interview to Mr. Herold Wellston, no matter how far Mr. Wellston had traveled for it nor how important the magazine Mr. Wellston represented. Mr. Igescu never gave interviews, and if Mr. Wellston was thinking of that silly vampire and ghost story in the Times, he had better forget it--as far as talking to Mr. Igescu about it. Or about anything.

  And how had Mr. Wellston gotten this unlisted number?

  Childe did not answer the last. He asked that his request be forwarded to her employer. She said that he would be informed of it as soon as possible. Childe gave her his number--he said he was staying with a friend--and told her that if Igescu should change his mind, he should call him at that number. He thanked her and hung up. Throughout the conversation, neither had said a word about the smog.

  Childe decided to do some thinking, and, while he was doing that, he had better attend to some immediate matters--such as his survival. He drove to the supermarket and found that it had just been reopened. Apparently, the manager was staying on the premises, and several of the checkout women and the liquor store clerk lived nearby. Cars were beginning to fill the parking lot, and people on foot were numerous. Childe was glad that he had thought of this, because the shelves were beginning to look bare. He stocked up on canned goods and powdered milk and purchased a five-gallon bottle of distilled water.

  On the way back, he heard six sirens and saw two ambulances. Hospitals were not about to complain of lack of business.

  By the time he had put away the groceries, he had made up his mind. He would drive out and scout around the Igescu estate. He had no rational cause to do so. There was not the thinnest of threads to connect Igescu with Colben. Nevertheless, he meant to investigate. He had nowhere else to go and nothing to do. He could spend the rest of the day with this doubtless unrewarding lead, and tomorrow, if the city began to return to normal, he would start on a definite and profitable case, if one showed up. And one should. There were bound to be many missing persons, gone somewhere with the smog.

  * * *

  CHAPTER 8

  The drive out was pleasant. He saw only ten cars moving on the streets; two were police. The black-and-whites, red lights flashing but sirens quiet, raced past him.

  Childe went west on Santa Monica Boulevard, turned right at Rexford Drive, and began the safari through the ever wealthier and more exclusive houses and mansions (northward was the hierarchical goal). He went up Coldwater Canyon and into the hills, which are labeled on the map as the Santa Monica Mountains. He swung left onto Mariconado Lane, drove for a mile and a half on the narrow, winding, macadam road, almost solidly walled with great oaks, firs, and high thick bushes and hedges, turned right on Daimon Drive, drove for a mile past several high-walled estates, and came finally to Igescu's (if Heepish had given him correct directions).

  At the end of the high brick mortared-with-white wall, three hundred yards past the gateway, the road ended. There were no walls to keep anybody from walking past the end of the drive. Whoever owned the land next to the Baron's felt no need for enforcing privacy. Childe drove to the end of the pavement, and after some maneuvering, turned the car around. He left it with its rear against a bush and facing down the road. After locking the doors, he put an extra key in the earth under a bush (always prepare for emergencies) and then walked to the gateway.

  The wall was ten feet high and topped by iron spikes between which were from four to six strands of barbed wire. The gateway was a single heavy iron grill-work which swung out when electrically actuated. He could see no keyholes. A tongue of metal must insert into a slot in a metal fitting in the side of the gateway. The grill-work was painted dull black and separated into eight squares by thick iron bars. Each square held a sheet of iron formed into the profile of a griffin with the wings of a bat. This was a grade-B movie touch, but, of course, only coincidence. The bat wings probably had some heraldic significance.

  A metal box six feet up on the right post could be a voice transceiver. Beyond the gate was a narrow tar-topped road which curved and disappeared into the thick woods. The only sign of life was a listless black squirrel, (The radio had reported that all wild land birds had fled the area.)

  Childe walked into the woods at the end of the road, He ignored the TRESPASSERS WILL BE VIGOROUSLY PROSECUTED sign--he liked the VIGOROUSLY--to walk along the wall. The going was not easy, The bushes and thorns seemed determined to hold him back. He shoved against them and wriggled a few time: and then the wall curved to the right and went up a steel hill. Panting, he scrambled up on all fours to the top. He wondered if he were that much out of shape or if the smog had cut down his ability to take in enough oxygen.

  The wall still barred his way. After resting, he climbed a big oak. Near the top, he looked around, but he could see only more trees beyond the wall. No branches offered passage over the walls.

  He climbed down slowly
and carefully. When he was a child, he had at times thought that he might prefer to be Tarzan instead of Sherlock Holmes. He had grown up to be neither, but he was much closer to Holmes than to Tarzan. He wouldn't even make a good Jane. Sweat ran down his face and soaked his undershirt below the armpits. His pants were torn in two places, a small scratch on the back of his left hand was bleeding, his hands were sore on the palms and dirty all over, and his shoes were badly scuffed. The sun, in sympathetic altitude with his spirits, was low. It was just about to touch the ridge of the western hills he could see through a break. He would have to go back now and conduct a tour of the wall some other time--if ever. To run and bumble through the woods in the dark would be more than exasperating.

  He hastened back to the car, tearing a button off his shirt this time, and got to it just at dusk. The silence was like that in a deep cave. No birds twittered or chirped. Even the buzz and hum of insects were absent. Perhaps the smog had killed them off. Or, at least, thinned their ranks or discouraged them. There were no sounds of airplanes or cars, sounds which it had been difficult to escape anywhere in Los Angeles County night or day. The atmosphere seemed heavy with a spirit of--what?--of waiting. Whether it was waiting for him or someone else, and what it was waiting for, was dubious. And, after he considered the feeling, he found it ridiculous.

  He got into the car behind the wheel, remembered that he had left a key in the dirt under a bush, started to get out to retrieve it, then thought better of it, and closed the door again. He drummed his fingers, wished he had not quit smoking, and chewed some gum. He almost turned the radio on but decided that, in this stillness, its sound would go too far.

  The suncast fell away from the sky at last. The darkness around him became thicker, as if it were the sediment of night. The glow thrown by the million lights of the city and reflected back onto the earth was missing tonight. There were no clouds to act as mirrors, and the surrounding hills and trees barred the horizon-shine. Stars began to thrust through the black. After a while, the almost full moon, edged in black, like a card announcing a death, rose above the trees.

  Childe waited. He got out after a while and went to the gate and looked through, but he could not even see a faint nimbus which might have revealed that, somewhere in that dense blackness, was a large house with many lights and at least two people. He returned to the car, sat for perhaps fifteen minutes longer, and then reached for the ignition key. His hand stopped an inch from the key.

  He heard a sound which turned his scalp cold.

  He had hunted enough in Montana and the Yukon to recognize the sound. It was the howling of wolves. It rose from somewhere in the trees behind the walls of Igescu's estate.

  * * *

  CHAPTER 9

  He was tired when he returned to his apartment. It was only ten p.m. but he had been through much. Besides, the poisoned air had burned away his vitality. The respite of the breeze had not helped much. The air was still dead, and it seemed to him that it was getting gray again. That must be one of the tricks his imagination was playing him, because there were not enough cars on the streets to account for another build-up of smog.

  He called the LAPD and asked for Sergeant Bruin. He did not expect Bruin to be there, but he was lucky. Bruin had much to say about his troubles with traffic that day. Not to mention that his wife had suddenly decided to get out of town. For Christ's sake! The smog was gone! For a while, anyway. No telling what would happen if this crazy weather continued. He had to get to bed now, because tomorrow looked even worse. Not the traffic. Most of the refugees should be past the state line by now. But they'd be back. That wasn't what was worrying him. The crazy weather and the smog, the sudden departure of the smog, rather, had resulted in a soaring upward of murders and suicides. He'd talk to Childe tomorrow, if he had time.

  "You sound as if you're out on your feet, Bruin," Childe said. "Don't you want to hear about what I've been doing on the Colben case?"

  "You found out anything definite?" Bruin said.

  "I'm on to something. I got a hunch..."

  "A hunch! A hunch! For God's sake, Childe, I'm tired! See you!"

  The phone clicked.

  Childe cursed, but after a while he had to admit that Bruin's reaction was justified. He decided to go to bed. He checked his automatic-answer device. There was one call. At 9:45, just before he had gotten home. Magda Holyani had phoned to inform him that Mr. Igescu had changed his mind and would grant him an interview. He should call back if he got in before ten. If he didn't, he was not to phone until after three the following afternoon.

  Childe could not go to sleep for a long time because of wondering what could have made the Baron change his mind. Could he have seen Childe outside the walls and decided to invite him within for some sinister reason?

  He awoke suddenly, sitting up, his heart racing. The phone was ringing on the stand beside him. He knocked it over and had to climb down out of bed to get it off the floor. Sergeant Bruin's voice answered him.

  The crooked hands of the clock on the stand touched the Gothic style 12 and 8.

  "Childe? Childe. OK! I'd feel bad about getting you up, but I been up since six myself. Listen, Budler's car was found this morning! In the same lot Colben's car was found in, how you like that? The lab boys, what're available, are going over it now."

  "What time in the morning?" Childe said.

  "About six, why, what difference does that make? You got something?"

  "No. Listen, if you got time," and Childe outlined what he had done. "I just wanted you to know that I was going there tonight in case I didn't..."

  He stopped. He suddenly felt foolish, and Bruin's chuckle deepened the feeling.

  "In case you don't report back? Haw! Haw!"

  Bruin's laughter was loud. Finally, he said, "OK, Childe. I'll watch out you check in. But this deal about this vampire--a baron, no shit? A real live Transylvanian vampire-type Rumanian baron, what runs a line of supermarkets, right? Haw! Haw! Childe, you sure the smog ain't been eating away your brain cells?"

  "Have your fun," Childe said dignifiedly. "Have you got any leads, by the way?"

  "How the hell could we? You know we've had no time!"

  "What about the wolves, then?" Childe said. "Isn't there some sort of law about having wild animals, dangerous animals, on the premises? These sounded as if they were running loose."

  "How do you know they were wolves? Did you actually see them?"

  Childe admitted that he hadn't. Bruin said that even if there were laws against keeping wolves in that area, it would be the business of the Beverly Hills Police or perhaps the county police. He wasn't sure, because that area was doubtful; it was on the very edge of Beverly Hills, if he remembered right. He'd have to look it up.

  Childe did not insist on finding out. He knew that Bruin was too busy to be interested and even if he wasn't busy he probably thought Childe was on a false trail. Childe admitted to himself that this was most likely. But he had nothing else to do.

  The rest of the day he spent cleaning up his apartment, doing his washing in the building's basement machines, planning what he would do that evening, speculating, and collecting some material, which he put into his trunk.

  He also watched the TV news. The air was as motionless and as gray as lead. Despite this, most of the citizens seemed to think that conditions were returning to normal. Businesses were open again, and cars were filling the streets. The authorities, however, had warned those who had left the area not to return if they had some place to stay. The "unnatural" weather might continue indefinitely. There was no explanation for it which could be proved or even convincingly presented. But if normal atmospheric conditions did return, it would be best for those whose health was endangered by smog to stay away, or to plan on returning only long enough to settle their affairs before getting out.

  Childe went to the supermarket, which was operating at almost sixty percent normalcy, to stock up. The sky was graying swiftly, and the peculiar ghastly light had now spre
ad over the sky from the horizon. It subdued the human beings under its dome; they spoke less frequently and more quietly and even the blaring of horns was reduced.

  The birds had not returned.

  Childe called Igescu twice. The first time, a recording said that all calls would be answered only after six. Childe wondered why the recorded call of the evening before had said he could phone in after three. Childe called again a few minutes after six. Magda Holyani's low voice answered.

  Yes, Mr. Igescu would see him at eight that evening. Sharp. And the interview would be over at nine. Mr. Wellston would have to sign a paper which would require that any material to be published could be bluelined by Mr. Igescu. He could not bring a camera. The chauffeur, Eric Glam, would meet Mr. Wellston at the gate and would drive him up. Mr. Wellston's car would have to be parked outside the wall.

  Childe had hung up and taken three steps from the phone when it rang. Bruin was calling. "Childe, the report from the lab has been in for some time but I didn't have a chance to see it until a coupla minutes ago."

  He paused. Childe said, "Well?"

  "It was clean, just like Colben's car. Except for one thing.

  Bruin paused again. Childe felt a chill run over his back and then up his neck and over his scalp. When he heard Bruin, he had the feeling of deja vu, of having heard the words before under exactly identical circumstances. But it was not so much deja vu as expectation.

  "There were hairs on the front seat. Wolf hairs."

  "You've changed your mind about the possible worthwhileness of investigating Igescu?"

  Bruin grunted and said, "We can't. Not just now. But, yeah, I think you ought to. The wolf hairs were put on the seat on purpose, obviously, since everything else was so clean. Why? Who knows? I was looking for another film, this time about Budler, but we didn't get any in. So far."

  "It could be just a coincidence," Childe said. "But in case I don't report in to you by ten tonight, if it's OK for me to call your house then you better call on the baron."