Mephista

by Maurice Limat

  She backs away and pushes me away. I want to help her, not to leave her like this, I run to her and try to take her in my arms.

  “Martine, no!”

  “Olga, please…”

  What is happening to her?

  She pounces on me and her hands, those beautiful temptress hands that they said were made to caress or to kill (a journalist’s phrase, but true) grab me by the throat.

  She’s strangling me… I’m going to die… Help! Michel…

  Everything is spinning around me. I struggle. And I hear a voice, a different voice, dark and hoarse, a voice that is unnatural, a voice that says:

  “Don’t kill her, Olga. She must live. The sacrifice has to follow the rules. When the red mass is celebrated, when you are who you want to be, nothing else will be refused you…”

  But Martine did not hear this. She had passed out. She was nothing but a poor little body, a young girl fainted in her nightshirt, as delicate as a crumpled flower, at the feet of beautiful, bloody, terrifying Olga.

  CHAPTER X

  A human meteor shot into Teddy Verano’s office on the Rue d’Enghien. The detective was on the telephone, trying to calm a woman who had hired him to follow her husband whom she suspected of having an affair.

  “Calm down, Madame. I’m going to send you a detailed report. But I can assure you, right now, that there’s nothing in it and your husband is simply hiding from you to play the horses… I will admit that he bets big. Yes… Are you sure? I understand, Madame… yes… understood… with the little note, OK… my pleasure, Madame.”

  While talking, he made signs to his untimely visitor to stay calm and sit quietly. In vain. The newcomer was flushed from running and out of breath. He fidgeted constantly and looked like a man with news of the utmost importance.

  Two or three times, with the telephone to his ear, Teddy Verano had to furrow his brow and point fiercely at the chair. But the other paced around like a lion in a cage, desperately wanting to speak. Verano, however, could not just drop a client.

  When he finally hung up, he started to say:

  “What the hell! Can’t you wait a minute…”

  “Monsieur Verano, it’s horrible!” said the visitor.

  “What is?”

  “Martine’s disappeared.”

  “What? Disappeared? When?”

  “Three days ago.”

  Teddy Verano jumped out of his chair.

  “Three days! Bloody Hell!”

  “Three days and three nights.”

  “Since that night at the Blue Parrot then?”

  “Yes.”

  This time, it was Teddy Verano’s turn to press his visitor.

  “Come on, talk… Tell me what happened!”

  Michel Roz flopped into an armchair. His voice was strangled by emotion.

  Three days ago, Teddy Verano had met the young man when he had invited him for a drink at the nightclub where Olga Mervil, Marcel Trempont and their gang were holding court, along with pretty Martine.

  They’d met next to the dance floor, where the brave and generous Michel had tried to confront the man who was terrorizing his maiden (Martine in this case). Michel had just been knocked down in some inexplicable way. The detective had reassured him, explaining to him that the girl was in no immediate danger, at least for the time being, and anyway—this seemed to make Michel happy—it would be easy to find her again if the need arose.

  After all, didn’t she live in the shadow of Olga Mervil, the up and coming star? She was her secretary, her confident, or something like that.

  They had talked for a long time. Michel Roz was overwrought and his budding passion for Martine had been sparked by their unusual encounter.

  Teddy Verano had seen right away how to make good use of this attitude. Since Michel was looking for Martine, and she was deeply interested in him, he only had to bring him into his camp.

  The next day, spurred on by the detective who had told him what he was doing, and hinted that weird things were involved in Olga’s unusual success, Michel Roz had hit the streets, neglecting his own affairs to conduct a little personal investigation.

  Teddy Verano had guided him, providing the necessary information. Michel Roz called him every day. So far, he knew that Olga kept filming every day in Boulogne, but her blonde friend was nowhere to be seen.

  Led to the Avenue Paul Doumer, where the future superstar was living, mingling with the journalists, who were all over the celebrity’s neighborhood, he did not succeed in spotting Martine.

  Finally, he had worked wonders to get in touch with a housekeeper who worked next door to the two women. The servant was a repatriated woman from Algeria. Michel Roz, who had an uncle in the same situation, had bonded with her, and found out what had happened three days, or rather three nights, earlier.

  A little before dawn, which meant the day after the memorable night at the Blue Parrot, the concierges had seen a car—an American or Italian limousine, she wasn’t not sure—park for a moment. Olga Mervil got out with Martine and a man whom she did not recognize. The car sped off into the night and returned only after daybreak.

  It was cold. It was raining.

  This time, Olga was the only one to get out of the car. She went back home and, the next day, life went on as normal for her. She went to the studio and had many visitors, but Martine was nowhere to be seen.

  Michel Roz had learned this one hour earlier, after he had managed, after a long, hard build-up, to “seduce” the housekeeper. Without a second to lose, he had jumped into his car and rushed over to the Rue d’Enghien, knowing that, at this hour, he would probably find Teddy Verano there.

  The detective bit his lip listening to Michel’s story. Had he been completely wrong? He had guaranteed that Martine was not in any immediate danger. Had he missed something?

  Of course, he had not told Michel Roz everything. He was particularly secretive about the weird conversation he had overheard at the studio. While Michel was talking, Teddy Verano was reviewing the facts and broke out in a cold sweat.

  Olga, he suspected, was playing a dangerous game. Wasn’t the man in the limousine the same person who had come to ask the star to keep who knows what promise? He had even mentioned some future victim. Could it be Martine?

  Scared now, Teddy Verano asked himself this question, but did not want to say too much to the young man who was falling in love. Hadn’t he proven this, first by standing up to the guy who had such a strange effect on Martine, and then by searching patiently for her for three days on his own?

  And the man from the Blue Parrot, could he be anyone but the very same person Teddy Verano had barely seen at the studio?

  Some of the things said, or hinted at, and some of Olga’s gestures, had brought out some strange suspicions in the ghost detective. Being around witches, sorcerers, ghouls, vampires and other creatures from beyond, often mixed up with criminals and charlatans who exploited both the gullibility of men and the invisible, mysterious, undeniable forces that could take on frightful forms in evil hands, all this had given him a remarkable education in the Occult.

  Michel Roz, for whom he had just poured a glass of whiskey to keep him in the office for a moment longer, looked at him and said:

  “My God, Monsieur Verano… you’re sweating!”

  It was true. The detective was really afraid. He was building up a dreadful scenario in his mind. He thought he understood Olga’s role, and the other role, that of the innocent, the unaware, was the one she had made poor Martine play.

  Whoever the Other might be, the designated victim they were talking about in the studio had to be Martine. What infernal power was demanding that Olga sacrifice her friend? For what unthinkable purpose? In exchange for what reward, what benefit for the future star?

  All of a sudden, after a moment of silence, of thoughtful concentration that Michel Roz dared not interrupt, Teddy Verano decided:

  “Finish your scotch. We’re going. No, hold on a minute.”

  He jump
ed on the phone and dialed a number. Michel sipped his Cutty Sark and watched his every move.

  “Hello. Mademoiselle Mellion? Teddy Verano here... I need to talk to Mademoiselle Hossegor… Yes, it’s urgent. Is she there? The baron’s not there either? It doesn’t matter. It’s her I have to talk to… Yes!” He paused a moment, then said, “Say it’s about Mephista...”

  At this name Michel Roz perked up but said nothing. Teddy Verano was already saying hello to Edwige Hossegor and asking to see her immediately.

  “OK, we’ll be right over,” he said, hanging up.

  Roz swallowed the last of his whiskey.

  “Quickly, we’re going to Passy.”

  “We can take my car.”

  “No, mine.”

  They hardly talked during the ride, which was slow going with the red lights and all the traffic at that hour.

  “When you hear what I have to say to Mademoiselle Hossegor, you’ll know everything,” said the detective.

  More traffic around the Pont Mirabeau.

  “Michel, you’ve got guts, I know, but I need to ask you, before going any further… how much do you care about Martine?”

  “It’s stupid, I know, and crazy. I saw her for barely an hour, but after we danced together… she was telling me secrets… and then, that man… she’s in danger, I feel it…”

  “Yes, but what kind of danger?”

  Michel Roz was about to ask more questions but Teddy Verano shot off between two trucks.

  Shortly thereafter, with no more time to talk, they were being welcomed by Edwige Hossegor. Eva Mellion had made a discreet exit.

  “Edwige,” Teddy Verano began, “this is Michel Roz, who should hear what we have to talk about. You know that I don’t want to disturb you for nothing. You also know that I take your intuition, your premonitions seriously… I still don’t know what’s happening, but it seems that you were right on target.”

  Edwige lifted her beautiful head and her eyes sparkled.

  “Mephista is at it again?”

  “I’m afraid so.”

  “And Mephista… is… that girl?”

  “In this case… yes.”

  Michel Roz was quite intimidated. Being from the business world, he was not used to being close to a famous actress like Edwige Hossegor. But Teddy Verano was talking, and he was listening, scared, to the conclusions being drawn by the detective’s reasoning, as he acknowledged Olga’s weird behavior, the incident at the Blue Parrot, and what nobody but him knew so far: the mysterious conversation in Olga’s dressing room.

  The longer he spoke, the paler Edwige became.

  In playing her diabolical roles, she had slowly become familiar with the world of the Occult. Her professional conscience compelled her to get information about mediums, prophetesses, sorceresses and other creatures that she played. Then, there had been her own adventure with Mephista, the evil wax robot who looked like her and committed abominable crimes in her name, Edwige Hossegor, the great star of the screen.

  Michel Roz was horrified. A realist by nature, he knew nothing about these things that had once made him shrug his shoulders. But now, things were different. There was Martine. He did not yet understand much, except that he was so suddenly passionate about her, and that she, happily, seemed to feel the same about him, but she had disappeared and was threatened by unusual dangers.

  Teddy Verano had finished talking. There was a short silence that Michel Roz dared not break. Edwige stood up.

  “Teddy, you were right to come here. We have to go to the studio.”

  “That’s exactly what I was hoping you’d say. I’m not the police, and it’s hard for me to break through the front door. Besides, Olga doesn’t know me and, until we hear differently, she hasn’t committed any crimes.”

  Michel Roz admired Edwige’s triumphant smile when she said:

  “So, we agree. I told you that it’d be better to know. Well, let’s all go to the studio together.”

  She straightened up, magnificent, always the performer, even in her natural movements.

  “I want to know… I will know… And this girl, I’ll rip off her mask. Yes, Teddy, you can count on it… I’ll rip it off her…”

  CHAPTER XI

  They started over. They started over and over again.

  In the movies, they figure that a day’s worth of film equals one minute on the screen and, most often, the public knows little of the enormous work of the director and his many collaborators.

  In spite of the difficulties of the scene, of the cold violence demanded by the character, Olga earned everyone’s admiration. Each time, she was able to put on (gladly, they would say) the frightening face of her character.

  It was a particularly dramatic scene during which the heroine of Horror at Midnight was having a young man tortured. Marcel Trempont’s art was to highlight the melodramatic aspect of the scene, to keep the brutal visions (which were sometimes farcical) in the background, so to speak, and stay focused on the faces of the protagonists.

  They saw, one after another, the tortured look of the patient, the faces of the torturers, half-hidden by scarves, and, finally, Olga’s face. The cold cruelty, the sparkle of sadistic joy in her eyes, the sensual ferocity sketched on her lips made for passionate kisses—that was what editing would give to the sequence of captivating images.

  Marcel Trempont was sweating blood and tears, but the technicians thought that this scene would be one of the best of what they had already filmed. And everyone, unanimously, stood in admiration of the art of Olga Mervil.

  Was it even dramatic art?

  You would swear that “you were there,” as the stagehands said.

  In the shadows around the set, surrounded by black velvet, where the skillfully lit faces were captured one by one by the cameras, more than one of them was whispering, “This girl is really scary…”

  Olga’s legend was taking shape, solidly, and nobody could forget that, a few days earlier, a few feet from where she stood now, they were filming another scene, during which the body of young Henri had just crashed down to the ground.

  But time had passed.

  The work day was over and Trempont’s assistant was politely pointing to his watch, while the director talked about another shot. Trempont was about to push him away, but quickly held back.

  “Right. It’s too late. OK, thank you all. See you tomorrow, guys.”

  And straightaway, the silence in the studio was broken. The incredible, almost religious, respect that surrounded filming gave way to all kinds of private conversations. Lights were turned on almost everywhere, while the huge spots died out. The black velvet background suddenly lost its magic and the actors walked off.

  It was then that Marcel Trempont noticed the three visitors who had quietly entered during the last few minutes.

  “Oh, my dear friend, you’re here.”

  He kissed Edwige’s hand and, with one of those elegant and vague gestures of a star, she introduced her two companions simply as “friends.” Trempont shook Teddy Verano’s hand (whom he remembered seeing before around Edwige), and then Michel Roz’.

  Edwige explained that, with Tragny gone—traveling abroad on business—and being terribly bored at home, she wanted to see the production up close. Neither Trempont nor anyone else at Teleor could refuse Baron Tragny’s beloved anything, so the director offered to take the visitors to the bar.

  “Later, dear,” said Edwige. “I’d like so much to congratulate Mademoiselle Mervil. My friends are also ardent admirers.”

  Trempont bowed and, in no time at all, Edwige with her two companions were standing in front of Madame Berthe.

  The dresser was playing her role well. Sometimes, dragons spit fire to keep away unwelcome visitors from the dressing rooms of the actors who were so often assailed by people who had nothing to do there.

  But she knew Edwige very well, having dressed her, and she babbled while smiling:

  “Mademoiselle Mervil… Of course! She’ll be so please
d…”

  Olga was in a bathrobe and had let down her beautiful black hair. Berthe introduced Mademoiselle Hossegor and, naturally, the future star gave her most beautiful, stereotypical smile to the “successful” star who was paying her such an honor.

  “Berthe, some chairs… and some port for everyone.”

  “You’re as nice as you are beautiful, and as beautiful as you are talented, for sure,” Edwige said as she sat down.

  Teddy Verano sat off to the side with Michel Roz, and admired the ease, the manners, and the apparent confidence of Edwige.

  At Tragny’s house, and during the trip over to the studio, they had talked and compared their notes to come up with a battle plan.

  Teddy Verano was well aware of what trouble had been dwelling in Edwige’s soul. And yet, he was pleased to see that she seemed to have taken back control of herself. Had the actress made up her mind to stop being the victim of demons like Mephista? Or was she playing another role?

  This was possible. Her sizzling career might allow her to appear relaxed, smiling, very comfortable in the dressing room of an actress who could become her rival tomorrow, if not her replacement. But if a duel was bound to take place between these two, Teddy Verano was sure that it would not be only on the artistic plane.

  Devastated by her roles, scared by the evil projections emanating from the characters she had embodied, Edwige Hossegor had turned down Horror at Midnight and graciously, it seemed, left it to the debutant who was uncommonly lucky. Therefore, she had no apparent reason to be jealous.

  Teddy Verano even knew that, on hearing about the tragic death of the stagehand, Edwige had almost sighed in relief, thinking that such a tragedy might have happened to her.

  But now, there were too many odd things surrounding Olga Mervil’s debut. A bloody aura was forming around her face that looked so pure—but a purity disturbed by her glaring eyes.

  In the up-and-coming battle, Teddy Verano believed he could find no better support than Edwige Hossegor herself. Better still, it was Edwige, she who had once been Mephista, who said that she was ready to stand up and attack.