Image of the Beast

by Philip José Farmer

  When he unwrapped it, he was not disappointed. Admittedly, Stoker was no St. John, Bok, Finlay, or even a Paul. But his work had a certain crude force that a number of people commented upon. It was a primitive, no doubt of that, but a powerful primitive. Forry was glad that it had some artistic merit, although he had no knowledge of what constituted "good art" and no desire to learn. He knew what he liked, and he liked this.

  Besides, even if it had been less powerful, even crude, he would not have cared. He had the only original painting of Dracula by the author of Dracula. No one else in the world could claim that.

  This was no longer true.

  That night he had come home to his house in the 800 block of Sherbourne Drive. It was raining then as now, and water was pouring down his driveway into the street. The street was flooded but the water had not yet risen to cover the sidewalk. It was after one o'clock, and he had just left a party at Wendy's to come here because he had to get out one of his comic magazines. As editor of Vampirella and some horror magazines, he had hard schedule dates to meet. He had to edit Vampirella tonight and get it out in the morning, air mail, special delivery, to his publisher in New York.

  He had unlocked the door and entered the front room. This was a rather large room decorated with large and small original paintings of science-fiction and fantasy magazine covers, paintings done on commission, stills from various horror and so-called science-fiction movies, photographs of Lon Chaney, Jr., as the Wolf Man, Boris Karloff as Boris Karloff, and Bela Lugosi as Dracula. Each bore a signature and a dedication of best wishes and fondest regards to "Forry." There were also heads and masks of Frankenstein's monster, the Creature from the Black Lagoon, King Kong, and a number of other fictional monsters. The bookshelves reached from floor to ceiling at several places, and these were jammed with the works of science-fiction authors, Gothic novel writers, and some volumes on exotic sexual practices.

  Forry's house had to be seen to be visualized. It had once been his residence, but he had filled it with works evaluated at over a million dollars. He had moved into Wendy's apartment and now used the house as his business office and as his private museum. The day would come--perish the day!--when he would no longer be around to enjoy, to vibrate with joy, in the midst of his dream come true. Then it would become a public museum with the great Ray Bradbury as trustee, and people would come from all over the world to view his collection or to do research in the rare books and with the paintings and manuscripts and letters. He was thinking about having his ashes placed in a bronze bust of Karloff as Frankenstein's monster and the bust put on a pedestal in the middle of this room. Thus he would be here in physical fact, though not in spirit, since he refused to believe in any survival after death.

  California law, however, forbade any such deposit of one's ashes. The morticians' and cemetery owners' lobby had insured that, the legislature passed laws beneficial to their interests. Even a man's ashes had to be buried in a cemetery, no matter what his wishes. There was a provision that ashes could be scattered out over the sea; but only from an airplane at a suitable distance and height. The lobby ensured that the ashes of a number of deceased were stored until a mass, thus economical, flight could be made.

  Forry, thinking about this, suppressed his anger at the money-hungry and essentially soulless robbers of the bereaved. He wondered if he could not make some arrangements for an illegal placing of his ashes in the bust. Why not? He could get some of his friends to do it. They were a wild bunch--some of them were--and they would not be stopped by a little illegality.

  While he was standing there, taking off his raincoat, he looked around. There was the J. Allen St. John painting of Circe and the swine, Ulysses' buddies. And there, pride of his prides, and there...and there...!

  The Stoker was gone.

  It had been hung on a place opposite the door so that anybody entering could not miss seeing it. It had displaced two paintings. Forry had had a hard time finding space in this house where every inch of wall was accounted for.

  Now, a blank spot showed where it had been.

  Forry crossed the room and sat down. His heart beat only a little faster. He had a faulty pacemaker; it controlled the heart within a narrow range, and that explained why he had to take stairs slowly and could not run. Nor did excitement step up the heart. The emotions were there, however, and they made him quiver when he should have beat.

  He thought of calling the police, as he had done several times in the past. His collection had been the object of attentions of many a burglar, usually a science-fiction or horror addict who brushed aside any honesty he might have possessed in his lust to get his hands on books, paintings, stills, manuscripts, masks, photographs of the famous, and so forth. He had lost thousands of dollars from this thievery, which was bad enough. But the realization that some of the works were irreplaceable hurt him far worse. And the thought that anybody could do these evil things to him, who loved the world as he did not love God, hurt. Who loved people, rather, since he was no Nature lover.

  Putting aside his first inclination to call the police, he decided to check with the Dummocks. These were a young couple who had moved in shortly after the previous caretakers, the Wards, had moved out. Renzo and Huli Dummock were broke and houseless, as usual, so he had offered them his hospitality. All they had to do was keep the house clean and fairly well ordered and act as helpers sometimes when he gave a party. Also, they would be his burglar insurance, since he no longer lived in the house.

  He went upstairs after calling a number of times and getting no answer. The bedroom was the only room in the house which had space for residents. There was a bed and a dresser and a closet, all of which the Dummocks used. Their clothes were thrown on the bed, the floor, the dresser top, and on a pile of books in one corner. The bed had been unmade for days.

  The Dummocks were not there, and he doubted they could be anyplace else in the house. They had gone out for the night, as they quite often did. He did not know where they got their money to spend, since Huli was the only one working and she did that only between fits of apathy. Renzo wrote stories but had so far been able to sell only his hardcore pornography and not much of that. Forry thought they must be visiting somebody off whom they were undoubtedly sponging. This increased his anger, since he asked very little of them in return for room and board. Being here nights to watch for burglars had been their main job. And if he reproached them for falling down on this, they would sneer at him and accuse him of exploiting them.

  He searched through the house and then put on his raincoat and went out to the garage. The Stoker painting was not there.

  Five minutes later, he got a phone call. The voice was muffled and unrecognizable, although the caller had identified himself as Rupert Vlad, a friend and a committeeman in the Count Dracula Society. Since Forry took all his calls through the answering service, he could listen in and determine if he wished to answer any. This voice was unfamiliar, but the name got the caller through.

  "Forry, this isn't Vlad. Guess you know that?"

  "I know," said Forry softly. "Who is it?"

  "A FRIEND, Forry. You know me, but I'd just as soon not tell you who I really am. I belong to the Lord Ruthven League and the Count Dracula Society, too. I don't want to get anybody mad at me. But I'll tell you something. I heard about you getting that painting of Dracula by Stoker. I was going to come over and see it. But I attended a meeting of the Lord Ruthven League...and I saw it there."

  "You what?" Forry said shrilly. For once, he had lost his self-control

  "Yeah. I saw it on the wall of, uh, well..."

  There was a pause.

  Forry said, "For the sake of Hugo, man, don't keep me hanging in air! I have a right to know!"

  "Yeah, but I feel such a shit finking on this guy. He..."

  "He's a thief!" Forry said. "A terrible thief! You wouldn't be a fink. You'd be doing a public service! Not to mention servicing me!"

  Even in his excitement and indignation, he could not kee
p from punning.

  "Yeah, uh; well, I guess you're right. I'll tell you. You go right over to Woolston Heepish's house. You'll see what I'm talking about."

  "Woolston Heepish!" Forry said. He groaned and then added, "Oh, no!"

  "Uh, yeah! I guess he's been bugging you for years, right? I kinda feel sorry for you, Forry, having to put up with him, though I must say he does have a magnificent collection. I guess he should, since he got some of it from you."

  "I never gave him anything!"

  "No, but he took. So long, Forry."

  * * *

  CHAPTER 26

  Fifteen minutes later, Forty was outside the Heepish residence. This was two blocks over from Forry's own house, almost even with it. In the dark and the driving rain, it looked like an exact duplicate of the Ackermansion. It was a California pseudo-Spanish bungalow with a green-painted stucco exterior. The driveway was on the left as you approached the house, and when you stepped past the extension of the house, a wall, you saw the big tree that grew in the patio. It leaned at a forty-five degree angle across the house, and its branches lay like a great hand over part of the tiled roof. At the end of the driveway was the garage, and in front of the garage was a huge wooden cutout of a movie monster.

  You turned to the right and onto a small porch to face a wooden door plastered with various signs: NO SMOKING PERMITTED. WIPE YOUR FEET AND YOUR MIND BEFORE ENTERING. THE EYES OF HEEPISH ARE ON YOU (hinting at the closed-circuit TV with which Heepish scanned his visitors before admitting them). ESPERANTO AND VOLAPUK SPOKEN HERE. (This bugged Forry, who was a long-time and ardent Esperantist. Heepish not only imitated Ackerman with the Esperanto, but, in his efforts to go him one better, had learned Esperanto's closest rival, Volapuk.)

  Forry stood for some time before the door, his finger held out to press on the doorbell. The skies were still emptying their bins; the splash of water was all around. Water roared out of the gutter drains and covered the patio. The light above the door gave a ghastly green illumination. All that the scene needed was thunder and lightning, the door swinging open slowly and creakingly, and a tall pale-faced, red-lipped man with sharp features and black hair plastered close to his head, and a deep voice with a Hungarian accent saying, "Good evening!"

  There was no light from the interior of the house. Every window was curtained off or boarded up or barred by bookcases. Forry had not seen the interior of the house, but it had beep described to him. His own house was so furnished.

  Finally, he dropped his hand from the doorbell. He would scout around a little. After all, he would look like an ass if he barged in demanding to have his painting back, only to find that his informant had lied. It would not be the first time that he had been maliciously misinformed so he would get into an embarrassing situation.

  He walked around the side of the house and then to the back. There should be a room here which had once been an anteroom or pantry for the kitchen. In his own house, it was now piled with books and magazines; in fact, he kept his collection of Doc Savage magazines just off the kitchen door.

  The curtains over the windows were shut tight. He placed his ear against the window in the door but could hear nothing. After a while, he returned to the front. That there were two cars in the driveway and a number parked, in the street might indicate that Heepish had guests. Perhaps he should return to his house and phone Heepish.

  Then he decided that he would confront Heepish directly. He would not give him a chance to deny he had the painting or to hide it.

  Having made up his mind, he still could not bring himself to ring the doorbell. He went to the front of the house and stood in the bushes for a while while the rain pelted him and water dripped off the branches. The confrontation was going to be dreadful. Highly embarrassing. For both of them. Well, maybe not for Heepish. That man had more nerve than a barrel of brass monkeys.

  A car passing by threw its water-soaked beams on him for a minute. He blinked against the diffused illumination and then walked from under the shelter of the bush. Why wait any longer? Heepish was not going to come out and invite him in.

  He pressed the button, which was the nose of a gargoyle face painted on the door. A loud clanging as of bells came from within followed by several bars of organ music: Gloomy Sunday.

  There was a peephole in the large door, but Heepish no longer used this, according to Forry's informants. The pressing of the doorbell now activated a TV camera located behind a one-way window on the left of the porch.

  A voice from the Frankenstein mask nailed on the door said, "As I live and don't breathe! Forrest J (no period) Ackerman! Thrice welcome!"

  A moment later, the door swung open with a loud squeaking as of rusty hinges. This, of course, was a recording synchronized to the door.

  Woolston Heepish himself greeted Forry. He was six feet tall, portly, soft-looking, somewhat paunched, and had a prominent dewlap. His walrus moustache was bronzish, and his hair was dark red, straight, and slick. He wore square rimless spectacles behind which gray eyes blinked. He hunched forward as if he had spent most of his life reading books or working at a desk. Or standing under a rainy bush, Forry thought.

  "Come in!" he said in a soft voice. He extended a hand which Forry shook, although he wished he could ignore it, let it hang out in the air. But, after all; he did not know for sure that Heepisb was guilty.

  Then he stiffened, and he dropped Heepish's hand.

  Over Heepish's shoulder he saw the painting. It was hung at approximately the same place it had hung in his house. There was Dracula sinking those long canines into the neck of a blonde girl!

  He became so angry that the room swirled for a moment.

  Heepish took his arm and walked him towards the sofa, saying, "You look ill, Forry. Surely I don't have that effect on you?"

  There were five others in the room, and they gathered about the sofa where he sat. They looked handsome and beautiful and were dressed in expensive up-to-the-latest-minute clothes.

  "My painting!" Forry gasped. "The Stoker!"

  Heepish looked up at it and put the tips of his fingers together to make a church steeple. He smiled under the walrus moustache.

  "You like it! I'm so glad! A fabulous collector's item!"

  Forry choked and tried to stand up. One of the guests, a woman who looked as if she were Mexican, pushed him back down.

  "You look pale. What are you doing out on a night like this? You're soaked! Stay there. I'll get you a cup of coffee."

  "I don't want coffee," Forry said. He tried to stand up but felt too dizzy. "I just want my painting back."

  The woman returned with a cup of hot coffee, a package of sugar, and a pitcher of cream on a tray. She offered it to him, saying, "I am Mrs. Panchita Pocyotl."

  "Of course, how graceless of me!" Heepish said. "I apologize for not introducing you, my dear Forry. My only excuse is that I was worried about your health."

  The other woman was a tall slender blonde with large breasts, a Diana Rumbow. The three men were Fred Pao, a Chinese, Rex Bilgren, a mulatto, and George Bunyan, an Englishman.

  Forry, looking at them clearly for the first time, thought there was something sinister about them. He could not, however, define it. Maybe it was something about the eyes. Or maybe it was because he was so outraged about the painting he thought that anybody who had anything to do with Heepish was sinister.

  Mrs. Pocyotl bent over to give him the coffee and exposed large light-chocolate colored breasts with big red nipples. She wore no brassiere under the thin formal gown with the deep cleavage.

  Under other circumstances, he would have been delighted.

  Then Diana Rumbow; the blonde, dropped a book she was holding and bent over to pick it up. Despite his upset condition, he responded with a slight popping of the eyes and a stirring around his groin. Her breasts were just as unbrassiered as Panchita's. They were pale white, and the nipples were as large as his thumb tips and so red they must have been rouged. When she stood up, he could see how darkly they
stood out under the filmy gown she wore.

  He was also beginning to see that the bendings over were not accidents. They were trying to take his mind off his painting.

  Pocyotl sat down by him and placed her thigh against his. Diana Rumbow sat down on the other side and leaned her superb breast against the side of his arm. If he looked to either side, he saw swelling mounds and deep cleavages.

  "My painting!" he croaked.

  Heepish ignored the words. He drew up a chair and sat down facing Forry and said, "Well! This is a great honor you have done me, Mr. Ackerman. Or may I call you Forry?"

  "My painting, my Stoker!" Forry croaked again.

  "Now that you've finally decided to let bygones be bygones, and, I presume, decided that your hostility towards me was unwarranted, we must talk and talk! We must talk the night out. After all, what with the rain and all, what else is there to do but to talk? We have so much in common, so much, as so many people, kind and unkind, have pointed out. I think that we will learn to know each other quite well. Who knows, we might even decide someday that the Count Dracula Society; and the Lord Ruthven League can band together, become the Greater Vampire Coven, or something like that, even if witches and not vampires have covens? Heh?"

  "My painting," Forry said.

  Heepish continued to talk to him, while the others chattered among themselves. Occasionally, one of the women leaned over against him. He became aware of their perfume, exotic odors that he did not remember ever having smelled before. They stimulated him even in his anger. And those breasts! And Pocyotl's flashing, dark eyes and Rumbow's brilliant blue eyes!

  He shook his head. What kind of witchcraft were they practicing on him? He had entered with the determination of finding the painting, taking it down from the wall or wherever it was, and marching out the front door with it. Now that he considered that, he would have to find something to protect it from the rain until he could get it into his car, which was across the street. His coat would do it. Never mind that he would get soaked. The painting was the important thing.