Berthe poured the port. Smiles flashed all around as they exchanged “star” talk about how dull the scary scenes were, how interesting to be directed by an artiste like Marcel Trempont, and whether or not the screenwriters were worth what they were paid.
Michel Roz wondered where all this was going. They were wasting time, he thought. He was thinking only of Martine. What had become of her? What was going to happen to her?
Michel knew all about the mysterious person who had come into this very dressing room to remind Olga of some terrifying promise she had made to seal some even more horrifying pact…
Suddenly, Edwige changed the conversation to Olga’s acting. Since no actress in the world is impervious to this kind of subject, it was easy to start in after a little small talk.
“Just now, my friends and I were admiring you. Really! To reach such a degree of cruelty for such a beautiful woman is great art, if I may say so.”
Like a real star Olga took it in stride.
“Coming from you, Mademoiselle Hossegor, it’s the highest compliment… I must tell you that I have often admired you, on both the big and small screen. Your acting in diabolical roles was the height of perfection. No one will ever equal your exquisite creation of Mephista.”
“That’s kind of you to remind me… But playing those scenes exhausted me. It’s true, I must have pushed myself too hard… because I’m really not such a monster in real life… and can I say, without offending you of course (she had that tinkling laughter of a woman of the stage), that I admire your nature even more.”
Michel Roz and Teddy Verano both saw very clearly, though fleetingly, Olga Mervil’s reaction.
“It’s true. I’m pretty relaxed about it.”
“As if all this was so simple for you,” Edwige continued, “...or so straightforward.”
There was a brief silence. One of those heavy silences before the storm.
Edwige furrowed her brow. A little too soon, perhaps, for Teddy Verano, but Olga had felt the attack.
“I’ve worked a lot on these kinds of roles.”
“Really? I thought you were just starting out?”
Olga gulped her Cintra and put down the glass.
“You can work… without filming anything at all.”
“Very true, Mademoiselle Mervil. But to reach such a degree of realism takes either a lot of experience in acting, or…”
Edwige paused and took a drink herself. The two men waited for the clash of swords in silence.
“Or… what?” Olga asked with a smile that suddenly betrayed all the nastiness boiling up inside her.
Edwige still sounded cheerful.
“What was I saying? Ah, yes… that to prepare for such a role without acting experience, it would take… let’s say, great knowledge of the world. At least, of a certain kind of world…”
She kept smiling. Olga too. And these smiles on these two pretty women were full of poison. Neither Michel Roz nor Teddy Verano could find anything to say. They could not interfere in a duel like this.
Now Edwige attacked more directly.
“Aren’t you upset by that awful memory? That poor stagehand who fell off the beam and crashed at your feet, splattering blood all over you… What a horrible baptism for an actress just starting out.”
Olga, in spite of her tremendous self-control, looked like she had seen a snake. She could feel not only Edwige’s searing eyes on her, but those of the two men as well. Her feminine instinct sensed a danger that she could not yet determine, but that was growing stronger.
“You mean…?”
“Just what I said.”
Olga was curiously pale, but she reacted:
“It’s horrible, I admit, but it was only an accident.”
“Was it really?”
“What else could it have been?” Olga said, with a furtive smile. “Don’t tell me you think it was murder?”
“Murders,” Teddy Verano spoke for the first time, “are not always committed in simple, natural ways.”
“Sorry, but I don’t understand, Monsieur.”
“Oh,” Teddy Verano said, “maybe it’s too much for you, but Mademoiselle Hossegor, if I understand correctly, means that there’s a difference between the movies and reality, between drama and life, between real blood and stage blood… The boundary that separates us humans from the world of the dark, of the beyond, is not so clear-cut… and when one is involved in certain roles…”
Olga pulled herself together.
“Are you saying that, somehow, someone can bring bad luck?”
Teddy Verano smiled. A mischievous flame burned in his hazel eyes.
“I’d go further… even bringing good luck. Well, relatively good luck… Like for great artistic success, for example… You know that there are people, women, who back away from nothing to get what they want. Especially in the movies. And sometimes, they use frightening methods. Although this brings them ‘good luck,’ which is only a relative term, it’s also true that bad luck can fall upon other people around them.”
Olga looked uncomfortable as she fumbled around for a cigarette. Michel Roz offered her one and Teddy Verano held out a light. With a triumphant smile, Edwige stared hard at the girl. But the three of them were up against a formidable adversary.
“I have to admit that this is all a little too hazy for me. So, who are you really? Journalists?”
“Please… we’re investigating the mystery of a new star’s sudden, meteoritic ascent to fame.”
“I’m not a big star,” Olga smiled.
“But you will be soon, if…”
Olga shuddered at these words.
“If… There’s an ‘if’?”
“Maybe. Some methods, in fact, can backfire.”
Olga suddenly stood up, wrapped in her bathrobe.
“Excuse me, I forgot. I’ve got an urgent appointment. I have to get dressed.”
“Oh,” Edwige said, “you still have a few minutes. By the way, I was surprised not to see that young friend of yours… you know, that ravishing blonde who works as your secretary, I think, and who hasn’t left your side since Marcel Trempont and Teleor found you.”
“My friend Martine. She’s gone to see her family.”
Edwige looked at her not hiding her skepticism.
“I don’t know her, but I’m worried about her.”
Olga, too, sounded sarcastic.
“She will appreciate your concern, I’m sure, Mademoiselle Hossegor.”
“Don’t you agree that things are kind of messy around you, Mademoiselle Mervil,” Edwige pressed on. “Like the bloody death of the stagehand we were just talking about. You never know… if some bad luck had struck that young man…”
This time, Olga could not hold back. Her stunning face twisted in anger and it was as stunning as it was scary. Marcel Trempont’s cameraman had gotten the same sensational shot with this look on her face during the pinnacle of the torture scene.
“But who are you?” she barked.
“And you?” Edwige shot back.
She was standing up now and walking toward Olga.
“Who am I? I’m Olga Mervil… A woman… An actress…”
“Let’s go!” said Teddy Verano, trying to grab Edwige’s arm.
Olga looked like she was starting to panic.
“Who do you think I am?” she stammered.
Edwige, leaning forward, beautiful as well, but more impressive because more of a woman, more mature, more solid, spoke again, in a soft but broken voice that contained all the terrors and all the passions that she had lived through:
“You’re something more than that, Olga Mervil. You’re something coming from me… You’re one of my roles… You’re all my roles mixed up together… Everything horrible and scary and breathtaking that I ever portrayed… You’re the demon and the witch, the vampire and the murderess… incarnated into one… I know it… I feel it… You can’t fool me… One man has already died because of you and a young woman has disappeared�
� Since you walked into this studio, I can feel dark forces prowling about… Can you deny it? Can you say it’s against your will?”
“Get out!” Olga yelled. “All of you, out! Leave me alone!”
“Not quite, my charming Olga.”
Quick as lightning, so swiftly that Teddy Verano, who had been trained in such reflexes, admired the movement, Edwige had opened her handbag and pulled out a small revolver and pointed it at Olga.
“Let’s stay calm, OK?” said the detective.
Teddy Verano figured that Edwige’s skillful maneuver was due to some scene she had once played.
Olga was trembling now, backed against the wall. Staying a safe distance away, Edwige spoke in a tone such that one could not tell where the tragic actress ended and the woman ready to fight began:
“Olga Mervil, you’re the woman I hate because she was born from me... She’s a projection of all the evil women I brought to life in my career… Olga Mervil, you are Mephista.”
Michel Roz was dumbfounded. He saw only one thing: although the situation was completely absurd, Olga did not deny it; she accepted Edwige’s surprising accusation without even a shrug. He understood that he had just walked into a frightening world that he was obviously not expecting to find in a movie studio.
Above all, he was wondering what dangers might be looming over Martine, the exquisite girl he knew so little about and who, minute by minute, was growing dearer to his heart.
But Olga, shaking like a demon sprinkled with holy water, asked:
“What do you want from me?”
“You’re going to get dressed and follow us.”
“Where?”
“We won’t hurt you, Olga Mervil. On the contrary, we want to exorcise the evil inside you… and find out what’s become of Martine.”
“Get out if you want me to get dressed. I’ll call my dresser.”
“No need. These two gentlemen will leave, but I’m staying.”
Teddy Verano waved to Michel Roz and they left the dressing room. They said nothing. In silence, they were absorbed in their thoughts. The detective was thinking that Edwige was a beautiful fighter, and her career as a femme fatale had been good for her firm, aggressive qualities.
Soon the two women reappeared. Olga was tense. As for Edwige, she was pretending to play with her scarf, but they guessed that she was still holding the revolver. Olga/Mephista was under control. At least, for the moment.
But a few journalists and photographers who were still in the studio had been waiting for the two actresses to leave. Teddy Verano and Michel Roz instinctively flanked the two women.
Edwige could be heard whispering to Olga:
“Smile, Olga. When there are photographers around, women like us have to smile all the time… That’s part of the job.”
And Olga smiled, along with Edwige.
They left the studio in a barrage of flashes that hit Teddy Verano and Michel Roz as well.
They climbed into the black DS and the detective took the wheel with Michel Roz sitting next to him.
The car sped out of Boulogne going toward the center of Paris, carrying Olga to an unknown destination.
CHAPTER XII
A red fog… a veil, maybe, but red…
I wake up from some kind of nightmare…
The feeling of intense horror, of icy cold.
Where am I? What happened?
The events of the past few weeks have shaken me up. Everything since that awful night when I was so scared for Olga, when I waited up for her until dawn… Her coming back and her strange attitude…
And then, the whirlwind of her sudden success began. Her faithfulness to me, her kindness in wanting me to share her astonishing adventure... The movie, the studio, Marcel Trempont, the miraculous offer from Hollywood…
New, different, surprising faces… But only one happy face, only one ray of hope in this chaos that scared me, filled with other, hostile faces.
Michel.
Michel seen so briefly. Michel, who showed up as if to protect me. Michel, who was separated from me in the flurry of the crowd in the nightclub where I saw that man who looked so menacing. That man with the glowing eyes…
But is he really a man?
I often think he doesn’t even belong to the world of the living… that man whom I’ve now seen several times. He’s the one who separated me from Michel…
Where am I then? It’s so cold… I slept. My bed feels very hard and cold. And yet, our apartment on the Avenue Paul Doumer is cozy...
Where’s Olga? What time is it?
Oh, all this red around me… I feel nauseous… and I see hands, hands, more hands, thousands of hands… hostile hands, menacing hands, hands reaching out for me…
Help! All these hands in all this red…
Olga… yes, it’s Olga. I see her. I recognize her. She’s like a bird, a huge bird. A bird of prey…
Olga, my friend forever, my soul sister. Olga, who was never poisoned by her sudden rise to fame, who always thought of me and demanded that I be by her side…
This bird with wings spread out… with sharp claws…
Olga, what is this monster in the red fog? It’s another Olga, a demoniacal Olga, an Olga with the body of a raptor, with threatening claws, and I don’t know any longer if her face is a woman’s or some awful bird of prey…
Olga’s pouncing on me…
No, I don’t want this! No, the claws are sinking into my flesh, digging into my chest, tearing out my heart…
I think I screamed. I’m awake now. The nightmare is over. I’m sitting on my bed. I’m feeling around for the knob on my bedside lamp, but I can’t find it. Nothing but a rough, wet wall. How did this wall pop up near my bed?
My bed? This hard, cold bed… where I am lying down dressed in a wrinkled dress and lose stockings… with my hair let down…
I’m scared. I look into the darkness. I don’t understand what’s happening to me but I know that I’m no longer on the Avenue Paul Doumer.
A basement… Yes, that must be it. I’m in a basement, lying on some kind of cot. My God… what’s happening to me?
Martine, poor little Martine, make an effort… Think… Remember… I can’t…
I want to scream, but my voice is caught in my throat. Olga…
A jolt shakes me. All of a sudden the veil, the big red veil enveloping my memories, tears away…
I see her again, lusty, hysterical, fighting with ghosts… I see her suddenly walking toward me, menacing, horrible. Another Olga… An Olga like the character she plays in her new role… the sinister Olga from Horror at Midnight. No more sweet, charming, faithful friendly Olga…
Suddenly, an awful question crosses my mind like a streak of fire: What if this was the real Olga? What if over the years I knew her, I was cherishing a monster?
No, I’m crazy. There’s something frightful in all this that escapes me… I want to, I have to, understand… I will find out.
I stand up. I feel my way along, trying to picture my prison. Because it is a prison.
I’m starting to remember… Yes, that awful night! Olga’s hands around my throat… Oh, I can still feel her terrible grip. And it’s not an illusion, not a nightmare. It was, dear me, real! Very real!
I know that I must have cried out instinctively:
“Help me, Michel!”
And then, there was a vision of that man… Him again… He was talking, saying:
“Don’t kill her, Olga.”
After… After, I don’t know… I woke up here. But where is “here,” Lord?
I feel a light switch. I press it with a trembling hand. Click! A yellow bulb lights up behind a grill in the wall. It is a basement.
The humidity seeps out of the walls. In a corner is a metal bed with a mattress. That’s where I woke up. A wooden door, but framed in iron and, of course, locked tight from the outside. Nothing I can do.
A small window… it’s too high for me to reach. Besides, it’s reinforced and they seale
d it shut. Everything was prepared for me.
And it’s cold. The walls weep. I can’t hear a sound. I stagger around… No, I’m not dreaming. I was dreaming, but now this is real. And what a reality it is!
Let’s see, I’m Martine, Olga Mervil’s friend. Last night (but was it really last night?) I was at the Blue Parrot with that festive bunch of movie people and journalists, everyone very real, very “in.” There, I met Michel. I danced with him. He held me tight and we talked. We told each other a few secrets. It was like a source of freshness washed over my heart…
Today… but what is today? Day? Night? How can I know in this tomb? Time is passing. I’m shivering from the cold as much as from fear…
I cried out. I screamed. I don’t really know if my voice “got through”… I lost my voice. No one answered me. Still no noise, not the slightest vibration. I feel like I’m dead, like I’ve been wiped out from among the living.
Michel… Michel… Oh, sweet and manly face barely seen! Why is this man I barely met so important in my eyes, the eyes of my heart?
From time to time… I have no notion of time… I don’t have my watch… I don’t know…
They dressed me because I remember that I was in a nightgown when Olga jumped on me and that spectral voice rang out. And they brought me here. Was I awake? Sleep walking? Hypnotized? How can I know?
I don’t know anything. I don’t even know if I’m still alive… But I am alive. I’m a girl of flesh and blood. And to prove it to myself, I bite my wrist and dig my nails into my neck… A little bit of blood…
Yes, I’m very much alive.
But imprisoned, buried, in who knows what grave… What’s happening to me is horrible… under this ceiling crawling with spiders…
Eternity… an eternity is opening before me… I’m going to stay here… I’ll never leave… never… never to see a living soul again… never to see Michel again, to live and to love…
Maybe this is hell. My God, what did I do to deserve this fate?
A sound. They’re coming.
There’s a crazy hope in my confusion, but then again, I’m seized by terror right away. Who can it be if not him, or them, who are keeping me captive, who kidnapped me and stuck me in this abominable place?
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