[Wizard of 4th Street 04] - The Wizard of Rue Morgue

by Simon Hawke - (ebook by Undead)

  Unknown to her father, she had lost her virginity at the age of twelve, to a boy who was five years older. At the age of eleven, she had witnessed her older sister, who was fourteen, making love with her boyfriend in her bedroom when their parents were away. On previous occasions, she had heard the sounds they made from her own bedroom and curious to see what was going on, she had hidden in her sister's closet and observed the action undiscovered. An unusually precocious girl, she had known what they were doing, though she had no real understanding of the physical sensations and emotions that accompanied the act. What struck her most were the reactions of her sister's boyfriend. She had always thought of boys as being stronger and superior, but although it had been clear to her that they both obviously enjoyed what they were doing, it was equally as clear that her sister was the one in control. And afterward, at the climactic moment, her sister's boyfriend had seemed like a completely different person. He trembled and made small, whimpering noises and clung to her like a child clings to its mother. And her sister had held him and made soft, cooing sounds while he lay on top of her, breathing heavily, and he seemed so . . . weak. That, more than anything else, had fascinated her.

  She found herself wondering if she could make a boy so weak and she soon had an opportunity to find out, with the very boy she had observed with her sister. In a very calculated way, acting as she had seen her sister act, she had seduced him and found that she could, indeed, make him as weak as her sister seemed to make him. And though the act itself was vaguely pleasurable to her, the idea of controlling him like that was absolutely intoxicating. And she wanted to do it again, with someone else, to see if she could reproduce that same feeling of control. And although she didn't know it, or could not have fully understood it if she did, Colette had been destined for that course from birth. There was something wrong with her. Deep down inside, something vital and important had been missing from the very start. She was a budding sociopath, with no sense of right or wrong and an overwhelming, pathological compulsion to control and manipulate others. And by the time her father noticed her in a new way and started acting out his own sick compulsions, Colette had already had at least a dozen lovers and the idea of controlling her father in the same way, the most powerful man in her life, was exhilarating to her. She had allowed him to fulfill his twisted needs and then she made him pay for it. By the time she was sixteen, he was her abject slave. She had utter contempt for him. A year later, ridden with guilt and remorse he could not bear, he committed suicide. And although she was not entirely responsible, Colette believed that it was she who drove him to it and that filled her with even more contempt for his weakness. And she transferred that contempt to every man she ever knew.

  It might have been possible to feel sympathy or pity for Colette if it were not for the fact that she was an empty shell, utterly immoral and totally remorseless. The only pleasure that she got from life was from manipulating and controlling others. It was an all-encompassing, pathological need. She had an irresistible desire to make people jump through hoops, especially men, and she was driven to reduce them to pliable nonentities. For which she hated them. By the age of eighteen, she had stopped having sex with men. She no longer took any pleasure in it and experience had taught her that it wasn't necessary to achieve the desired effect. The implied promise of it was all that was required. For physical relationships, she much preferred the company of women. They were not as weak as men, but she manipulated them as well. It was the only thing that gave her any satisfaction.

  She had a job dancing nude in a small saloon located in the Latin Quarter. It was not one of the fancier establishments, such as the Cafe Noir, with elaborate stage shows and chorus girls dancing in choreographed routines. Colette did not like sharing the stage with anyone. She wanted to have all the attention for herself, so she danced in a club that had several small stages set about the room, with chairs placed around them so that men could sit around the perimeter of the stage with their drinks and cigarettes and stare up at her as she danced, moving through a succession of seductive poses. They would give her tips and for a bit more money, she would give them a "table dance" away from the stage, in one of the darkened corners of the club. The whole thing was a sexual tease, with no real contact occurring between her and the patrons of the club. She might touch them slightly, with a stroking motion on the upper arm, a light caress upon the cheek or run her fingers through their hair, but they could not touch her and the club employed large bouncers to make sure no one got out of line. It was yet another way she could control them and she was paid for it, as well. But though she smiled at them and gave them smoldering looks as she performed, she felt nothing. And though the club had a strict policy against going out with customers, she often did just that, especially with men who had money to spend.

  She got so that she could identify them almost immediately. It was easy. They were always the ones who tipped more generously, as if to show off, and often asked for the more expensive table dances, during which they could have the opportunity to tell her how much they wanted her. She would lead them on, telling them that she was not allowed to date the customers, but saying it in such a way that led them to believe that she could be talked into it.

  She kept them coming back to the club, again and again, investing more of their time and money, until she was sure she had them well and truly hooked. Then she would finally consent to see them outside the club, but always in a public place, always "just for coffee," playing the cautious innocent who just happened to dance naked in a bar because it was the only way she could make enough money to help support her ailing mother. In truth, she had no idea of her mother's state of health or that of anybody in her family. She had not seen or spoken with them since her father's suicide, when she had confronted her mother with the reason for it and thoroughly burned all her bridges.

  After the first few dates, she would have them so firmly in the palm of her hand that they would start telling her the most intimate details about their lives. They were almost always married and they almost always cheated on then-wives, which meant that they would probably cheat elsewhere, too, such as in their business, and little by little, leading them along, gradually allowing them slight liberties —a kiss here, a touch there, always with the implied promise that more would be eventually forthcoming—she made inroads into their private lives, like a cancer slowly spreading through a person's system. She would get them to spend money on her to show off how successful and powerful they were, reacting with a feigned childish delight to every gift and telling them they "shouldn't have," and she would get them to reveal more and more about themselves, to show her how honest and sensitive they were, until one day they would wake up and realize that she was in a position to totally destroy them. And then the game would begin in earnest.

  Colette was not really interested in blackmail. She was interested in using what she learned to make them do things, like a chess master moving pieces on a board. She found it more difficult to do with women, who were not as easy to manipulate as men, but she enjoyed the challenge. At any given time, she had at least half a dozen people on the string, playing with them like a puppeteer. The more complex her machinations, the better she enjoyed it. She was always very careful in the selection of her pawns. It would not do to pick someone whom she could inadvertently push too far, someone who could strike back and hurt her. A true sociopath, the only pain that she was capable of feeling was her own. The only person she was capable of feeling sorry for was herself. It would have been easy to think of her as being evil, except that she quite literally did not know the difference between what was good and what was evil. She was, like most sociopaths, almost an alien being, able to mimic human behavior, but it was all a sham, a performance. She did what was expected of her in any given social situation, but she didn't really feel much. She could, however, feel fear.

  She felt it as she was walking home one night after dancing at the club. She was tired and her feet hurt and she was anxious to get back t
o her apartment and slip into a nice, warm bath. It was late, almost three o'clock in the morning, and the streets were practically deserted once she left the Latin Quarter. Her high heels made clip-clopping sounds on the pavement as she walked with a quick, purposeful stride.

  Because she often had to leave the club at a late hour, she carried a small pistol in her purse and, like everything else that she had ever done, she had practiced with it diligently, like an automaton, until she knew just how to use it with optimum results. Because it was a small-caliber weapon, so that it could be easily concealed, she knew that it worked best up close, where she could go for a head shot. She had practiced drawing the pistol from her purse and firing it quickly so that she could make such a shot nine times out of ten and, because of that, she felt reasonably secure walking through the street at night. But on this night, she did not feel secure at all.

  It had rained earlier that evening and the streets were slick and lambent, the moisture on them reflecting the glow of the streetlights. It was a cool night and a pleasant breeze was blowing. She was almost halfway home when she suddenly felt the hairs rising on the back of her neck and experienced the inexplicable sensation that she was being followed.

  It was one of those instinctual, almost subliminal sensations. She hadn't seen or heard anything, but it was the sort of reaction people sometimes get when they have the sudden feeling that someone is staring at them from across a crowded room. They turn and, sure enough, someone is staring. Colette stopped suddenly and turned around, but she didn't see a thing in the street behind her. She stood perfectly still, her hand on her purse, gazing intently into the shadows. Was that a movement? She wasn't sure. She swallowed nervously and continued walking, slightly increasing her pace.

  She felt it again.

  She glanced over her shoulder and, this time, she was almost certain she had seen a movement, just a quick glimpse out of the corner of her eye. She started walking faster. And then she heard it. The unmistakable sound of footsteps, trying to match her own pace, but not quite succeeding. Clip-clip, clop-clop, clip-clip, clop-clop—just slightly out of synch. She quickly stopped and turned.

  Nothing.

  This time, she was certain that it wasn't only her imagination. She was definitely being followed. Stalked. Her stomach muscles tightened up. Don't run, she told herself. If you start to run, he'll know he's got you. He'll know he's in control.

  Suddenly, it occurred to her that he might be intending to follow her all the way to her apartment, so that he would know where she lived. Perhaps it was one of the customers from the club, one of those sly voyeur types who would try to find out where she lived, so that he could watch her from concealment, perhaps slip cryptic notes under her door or send her gifts anonymously. He would try to find out her telephone number so that he could call her and say nothing when she answered. It was a form of manipulation and that was something she could understand. She had encountered those types once or twice before. They were generally small, cowardly little men trying to live out a fantasy of power. She knew how to handle them. On the other hand, it could be a mugger or a rapist. She knew how to handle those, as well. That was why she had the gun. Either way, she had no intention of allowing her stalker to find out where she lived.

  She turned into the next alleyway and walked down it a little ways, then flattened herself with her back against the wall, so that she could easily see the entrance to the alley. She slipped her hand into her purse and took out the pistol. For a few moments, nothing happened. There was no sound of approaching footsteps, no sign of anyone following her. An then a huge dog came padding silently into the alley. It stopped a short way inside and growled. And as she watched it in the glow from the street lamp on the sidewalk, Colette suddenly realized that it was not a dog at all, but a large wolf. A wolf on the streets of Paris! No, it was impossible. It had to be a dog. But she felt the cold fist of fear squeezing her insides. Her small pistol suddenly seemed terribly inadequate.

  The animal could smell her. It bared its teeth in a snarl and growled again. Slowly, it moved farther into the alley, stalking her. She held up the gun and tried to keep her hand from shaking.

  "Michel!"

  The voice came from close by, just around the corner of the building. A woman's voice.

  "Michel, where are you?"

  The beast stopped where it was and turned its head, whimpering slightly. A woman was silhouetted in the light as she came to stand at the entrance to the alley.

  "There you are!" she said. "Michel, what are you doing in there? What is it? Are you chasing cats again?"

  Colette let out an audible sigh of relief. She put down the gun.

  "Who's there?" the woman said.

  The animal began to growl again.

  "It's okay," Colette said, stepping out away from the wall. "I . . . I was afraid of your dog. I thought it was going to attack me."

  The animal growled again. "It's all right, Michel," the woman said. "Sit."

  The beast whined slightly and sat down in its haunches, its tongue lolling.

  "I'm sorry if he frightened you," the woman said. "But he won't hurt anyone unless I tell him to."

  "He must make you feel safe, walking the streets at night," Colette said. "What kind of dog is that?"

  "He's not a dog," the woman said. "He's a wolf."

  Colette had been just about to reach out to pet him, but she immediately backed away. "A wolf! Really? You have a wolf for a pet?"

  "No need to be afraid," the woman said. "He does anything I tell him." She smiled. "Sometimes he's almost human."

  Colette was fascinated that this woman could actually have a trained wolf. To actually control a wild beast like that. . . .

  "Did you raise him from a pup?" she said.

  "Baby wolves are called cubs," the woman said. "But no, he was almost fully grown when I found him."

  "Found him?" Colette said.

  The woman laughed. "It's a long story," she said.

  "I'd like to hear it," said Colette, looking at the woman.

  She was really very beautiful. Even more beautiful than she was. She had long, flaming red hair, high cheekbones and copper-colored skin. Her eyes were gorgeous, a striking shade of metallic green. She wore a long dark cloak, open in the front, a black blouse, skin-tight black leather pants and high-heeled boots. Colette found herself powerfully attracted to her. Their eyes met and they gazed at each other silently for a long moment.

  "Would you like to have a drink together?" Colette said. "My apartment isn't far from here. You can bring your wolf and tell me how you found him. What does he eat?"

  "Anything I tell him to," the woman said with a smile. "Would you like to pet him?"

  "Is it all right?"

  "Go on. He won't hurt you."

  Slowly, Colette stretched out her hand and stroked the beast's fur. It licked her hand.

  "Hello, boy," she said. "You gave me quite a scare, but we're going to be friends, aren't we?" She glanced up at the woman. "My name's Colette."

  "Mine's Leila."

  Chapter

  EIGHT

  They had the routine down to a fine art. The first step was picking out their victim. That was the simplest part. Tourists were easy to spot. Sometimes, they went after tourists who traveled in pairs, or even in small groups of three and four, but the ones who were by themselves made the best marks. Suddenly, the unsuspecting tourist would find himself surrounded by a group of small, bedraggled children, shouting and cajoling, tugging at his clothes, grabbing at his hands and getting in his way as they begged for coins. One of them would thrust something at the unsuspecting victim, a folded up newspaper was most often used, and while the disoriented mark's attention was thus distracted, nimble fingers would dart underneath the paper and pluck out his wallet. The wallet would immediately be passed to one of the other children, usually the smallest or the swiftest runner, and by the time the victim realized that his pocket had been picked, the one with the wallet was long gone. The
police could do nothing in a situation such as this and many tourists found their pockets lightened in this manner by the gangs of gypsy children, against which the authorities were practically helpless.

  The old man who walked across the square with his gold-headed cane looked foreign and, better still, he looked prosperous. His clothes were well tailored and his coat looked expensive. The cane he carried didn't give them any pause. He did not look very threatening and most people would never think of striking out at a pathetic-looking bunch of children. They surged toward him, surrounding him, crying out and begging and tugging at his clothes. To be on the safe side, two of them fastened on to the hand holding the cane. Marcel, the oldest at fourteen, thrust a paper at him while Karl, an accomplished pickpocket at eleven, ducked beneath it as he made to grab his wallet. Then, suddenly, everything went wrong.

  Karl felt a strong hand clamped around his wrist and Marcel stared as the old man's eyes fixed firmly upon his and began to glow with a green fire. He dropped the paper as he stiffened, his eyes glazed and unfocused. Karl tried to jerk away, but an instant later, he also felt the burning gaze upon him and, like Marcel, he stopped resisting. The chatter of the other children fell silent as they, too, fell under the spell and became silent, standing with slack jaws and unfocused stares, like a bunch of dirty little statues.

  The old man smiled as he looked around at them. "Filthy little beggars, aren't you?" he said, his voice belying his aged appearance. "But you'll all do. Yes, I think you'll do quite nicely."