Chapter 15
DROPS of burning wax sizzled to the floor sending up curls of smoke. The blowtorch ate deeper into the likeness, the fire jet hissed and sputtered. Eyes, nose, chin and mouth curled and ran. Phibes bent closer to his work waving the sooty brass snout about the head like a sculptor. He chipped and drilled deeper with the jet, hissing as the features ran. He hissed and gouged the neck, hissed and seared the cheekbones, hissed again, and melted the brain pan.
Phibes cut the gas and threw the blowtorch onto a table cluttered with tools. Seven battered mounds now lined the circle of likenesses. Two masks of the Nurse, Miss Allan, and of Henri Vesalius, completed the circumference. Phibes eyed the lot, scowling and noticeably fatigued. Of course it was impossible to tell his precise mood because of the cosmetic nature of his features, but something could be divined about his inner attitude from his walk, his posture, his gestures. Observing Phibes was comparable to studying a blind man or a deaf-mute.
Nevertheless, the central question pressed urgent: what was known of Anton Phibes the man? He was first of all a generalist, a man equally at home with Kepler and Bach. That he was a patrician could not be determined simply because of his wealth but it is doubtful whether money or its absence would have changed him. He had ability, an iron character, resourcefulness, and the moral strength requisite to difficult judgments. He’d passed from the diffidence of his student days to the years of public service with ease and was able to accommodate the serenity of the former with the social prominence of the latter.
He was a man earmarked for brilliance but marked by tragedy. The love that gave him everything, took it all away. And, just as infinitesimal errors in the calibration of a telescope will preclude notice of an entire galaxy, Victoria’s death devastated and subsequently dominated Phibes’ life.
But others, it could be argued, endure tragedy without compounding it. Why not Phibes? He was a precise man, a man capable of infinite detail, of infinite patience. He had a strong sense of rectitude and an eye for the essential fact. As a physicist he had a primary concern with the general laws of motion, mass and time. He knew the importance of observation, was aware of Heisenberg’s delineation of the effect of the observer on that which is observed. To this preoccupation with precision was added Phibes’ practical knowledge of music. He was equally familiar with the classical treatment of rhythm and with Bartok’s contemporary work in atonality.
Protean, logical, passionate, Phibes was a man who lived, who could live, on the grand scale. To find his pecific reasons for turning to mass murder one would have to look to the man himself.
Phibes seemed terribly weary as he moved through the ballroom. Vulnavia, dressed now in a simple black dancer’s costume, was dancing a stately pavanne to the accompaniment of the mechanical orchestra. He hardly bothered to notice as he took his seat at the rose-colored organ centered on a dais opposite the musicians. Vulnavia gazed at him trancelike, expecting him to play to her pavanne. Instead he initiated the floor elevator system and slowly sank into the shrine room on the level below.
Once inside that sepulchre Phibes’ intense weariness seemed to soften. As his strong hands spanned the keys an image of Victoria appeared on a small projection screen mounted on the wall behind the organ. He glanced at her longingly; she’d been photographed at a spot along the Dover coast and stood alone on a crag with the surf awash and white far below. He pushed a stop on the keyboard, and soft seafoam sounds ensued as undercurrents to his music. Then another picture, a close-up of Victoria posed before some elms, appeared.
Phibes’ eyes welled with tears as he played against a succession of portraits of his wife. She was in a skiff on the Thames, smartly dressed on a shopping excursion to Mayfair, at the breakfast table drinking from a tall white cup, running barefoot along a grass matted river bank. Always in motion, charged with the energy of her youth and love, she was as near to Phibes as she had been then. Except. . . .
His voice filtered from a concealed speaker, metallic but somehow touched with grace, as he read from John Donne’s The Good Morrow
And now good morrow to our waking souls/which watch not one another out of fear;/for Love, all love of other sights controls.
He closed his eyes and increased the music’s volume.
My face in thine eye, thine in mine appears/And true plane hearts doe in the faces rest/where can we find two better hemispheres/ without sharpe North, without declining West?
He bent his head lower to the keyboard as the words drew to conclusion. His strength was going fast.
Whatever dyes, was not mixt equally. If our two loves be one, or thou and I/Love so alike, that none doe slacken, none can die.
At that the last picture of Victoria faded, and Phibes ended his playing. The candles had burnt low and he sat in repose in the dark room, a brooding figure, permanently alone. In his hands he clasped a new brass ensign, an “arecha,” the symbol for locusts.
As Phibes’ strength wavered, Harry Trout, too, found himself wishing for more. The day had begun with a painfully strained briefing by Tom Schenley on the circumstances of Whitcomb’s demise. So awkward and inexplicable was his murder, so sordid and crying for prevention were its circumstances, that Trout actually had to suppress an urge to laugh when the solemn Schenley unfurled the brass unicorn’s head from its canvas wrappings and laid it on his desk. He hardly listened to Tom’s description of the heavy rubber slingshot rigged like some medieval siege weapon on a rooftop across the street from Whitcomb’s hotel, so impressed was he by the sleek lethal efficiency of the murder instrument.
Lunch had been steamed cod and biscuits followed by several straight Scotches, fortifications, he hoped, for his interview later with Audrey Basehart. He found himself recounting again the bare and baleful facts of the case, which was becoming more damnable by the hour, to the young woman whose persistence he couldn’t help but admire. He’d already given her what little of Kitaj’s effects they’d gathered from the wreckage and really had no reason to speak further but he couldn’t refuse an interview. She was in complete control of her emotions that afternoon and seemed distinctly and pointedly interested in the progress of the case. After she left he credited to the depth of her affection a thought which was oddly disquieting.
The rest of the afternoon had been given over to a rigid review of the security preparations for the nurse and Vesalius. Miss Allan presented a special problem because she could not conveniently get away from her work. The hospital itself was large and rambling, with new wings and buildings complicating the floorplan. It would have been impossible to guard the myriad exits, ground level windows and elevators, so it was decided to concentrate on Miss Allan herself. She’d been provided with two bodyguards twenty four hours a day for the past four days. To add to the problem, Miss Allan’s residence was in a rather new brick structure to the rear of the hospital opposite a small but heavily wooded park. She occupied an exterior room, and to shield her against an assault from the park, patrols were concealed in its thick undergrowth. In the building proper men were posted on both the 5th and 7th floors—her room was on the 6th floor—and at each exit.
Vesalius was another matter. He’d steadfastly refused to permit a guard in his home, claiming that it would cause him more discomfort than the protection was worth. Further, Vesalius persisted in his argument that he had been merely a consultant on the case and was not, in fact, a functioning member of the surgical team. Vesalius’ interest in the case stayed high, and his development of the information on Phibes had been sufficiently helpful as to cause Trout to honor his request. Of course Whitcomb’s death changed all that.
Trout was just in the process of ordering a guard for Dr. Vesalius when Sir John barrelled into his offices.
“Trout!”
The Inspector, accustomed to facing situations of the utmost desperation with a seasonal coolness, quaked inwardly. He’d been privy to the fact that a top level press conference had taken place somewhere upstairs earlier in the day.
&
nbsp; “Trout, I have just spent twenty minutes of my time defending the honor, efficacy and, yes, even the professional capability of this department against the closest kind of questioning. It would not have been so attenuating but for the fact that the commisioners were there in person.”
“Did they speak, sir?”
“Speak? Of course they spoke! They were in the thick of it. It got to the point where they were‘explaining’ the presence of the Department!”
“That was most civic-minded of the commission.”
“There’ll be no witticism from this point on, Mr. Trout. The College of Surgeons is prepared to call for a parliamentary review, and they’ll get one, too. But before that happens, I’ll shake this department to the roots to get some appropriate action. Now, do you realize that we’re in a crisis of the first magnitude?”
“The situation is critical, sir, but not desperate.”
“Not desperate? One tenth of this department is now active on a case, looking for a man who, according to you, has been buried once.”
“It’s just a theory, sir.”
“I don’t know about your theories, Trout, but I’ve had a gut-full of your practice.”
Trout got up and opened his office door. Crow continued his tirade unabated. “I’m talking to you. It seems to me that with immaculate precision you’ve been arriving on the scene just after the victim’s death. This time, due no doubt to some organizational oversight, you arrive there before the crime. But as I’ve come to expect, that made little difference. It was still committed. A brass unicorn has been catapulted across a London street and impaled an eminent surgeon. Words fail me!”
Crow thundered out the door which Trout had held open. Trout followed him and moved down the corridor in the opposite direction.
“Where are you off to now, Trout?”
“To the lavatory, sir.” Would the man give him no peace?
“Highly appropriate! And then?”
“To the hospital to personally supervise the security measures. We’ll be spending the night there.”
“I expect some reassurances in the morning. And what of your prime suspect?”
“Dr. Phibes? Fragmentary information is all. The bank that closed his estate never saw him in person. Darrow, that music dealer, is steadfast in his claim to have seen the doctor, but he knows nothing else about him. Other than that we’re sifting the files for psychopaths.”
“Well, keep at it. And no more mishaps. As it is, I may have to review your position in the case.”
“I understand, sir.” Trout had heard these threats before. This seemed a bit stronger than in the past. Of course he knew that his job was on the line. But it was on the line every time he went out the door. He shrugged and hurried down the corridor.
When he got to the hospital it was already dark and the streets were unreasonably quiet, even though it wasn’t yet 8:30. Trout had never liked hospitals, perhaps because he’d had the daylights scared out of him when, at age six, his parents had hospitalized him for a tonsillectomy and then neglected to visit him until after the operation. Later, they explained that they acted on the advice of the family doctor not to disturb his rest, but the terrors of that long night, filled with the comings and goings of the gurney in the hall, the clink of instruments, coughs, groans, wheezes, and the stink of ether, stayed with him.
He scanned the layout and was pleased with what he saw. The only evidence of the security force were two uniformed men, the regular patrolmen of the area, who were slowly moving in opposite directions from a deserted intersection at the far end of the square. The park was pitch black except for a dull glint of metal signifying the squad hidden there. Up above, on the main building’s gabled roof, a lone figure stood in silhouette near a ventilator.
Vesalius met him at the door. As soon as they shook hands, Trout remembered he’d neglected to put a guard on the doctor. Now he’d have to keep Vesalius with him until arrangements could be made.
“Your office told me you’d be here, Inspector. As one of the principal players I thought it appropriate if I could be on hand when you talk to Nurse Allan.”
Trout was pleased. “That was thoughtful of you, doctor. We’re going to meet with her in the conference room downstairs.” They passed a sergeant on guard at the elevator bank on their way to the stairwell. He snapped to attention as Trout passed.
“Everything quite normal, sergeant?”
“Nothing to report, sir.”
They hurried down the steel stairs and through a long, green, pipe-lined corridor, entering the conference room at the end. Trout pointed to a large map of the hospital complex showing the multiplicity of its wings, outbuildings, laundry and boiler rooms, and he described the security measures to Vesalius.
“The whole place is completely sealed. Men from the Yard, as well as our locals, hand-picked and briefed, are spotted at all the exits, on the roof, and in the park.”
Vesalius watched intently as Trout traced the plan’s details.
“We’ve got mobile units at every intersection. The main building has plainclothesmen on every floor, and her residence is sealed tighter than a drum. There are even some men on the roof to greet the bastard if he drops in on us via balloon—which I wouldn’t put past him. I think she’ll be all right.”
Vesalius couldn’t resist questioning him. “Just suppose Phibes is in the building now?”
“Was here before we got here, you mean?” Trout grinned. “Then we’ve got him. He can’t get out. I hope he is, doctor,”
Vesalius wasn’t amused. “After all, he has killed seven people in the last fourteen days.”
They both turned to greet Miss Allan, a still attractive woman in her mid-thirties. Two plainclothesmen remained discreetly outside the room’s windowed doors as she entered. She seemed pleased and relieved at seeing Vesalius.
“Doctor Vesalius, what on earth are you doing here? You’re not involved in this charade are you?”
“In a sense, I’m afraid I am, nurse.”
“But doctor, these men have told me I must not leave the hospital grounds. And I did have plans to go to the theatre this evening. Why me? I mean that’s surely not right. Can you tell me what’s going on?”
Trout, seeing that she was becoming upset, urged her to retire. “Please Madam, would you be kind enough to go to your room; we’ll have your supper sent up.”
She bristled. “I’ve already eaten, thank you. Doctor?”
Vesalius looked at her intently. “I’m sorry, nurse. Inspector Trout is doing his best. You must go to your room and stay there, for the next twenty-four hours at least.”
“But, doctor!”
“Please. I know what you must think, but the police have reason to believe that a man will try to kill you presently.”
“Kill me? Whatever for?”
“It has to do with a case we served on, together with seven others, about four years ago. You and I are the only ones left alive.”
“Victoria Phibes, yes, I read about it in the Mail. How awful.” She was terribly shaken and started to sit down, but Trout and Vesalius, anxious to get her to the safety of her room, escorted her slowly up the elevator and tried to calm her fears. Guards were at each landing and a uniformed patrolman stood outside her room. They went inside with her, and Vesalius put water on for tea while Trout looked about the walls and windows. They left after further reassuring the frightened woman that they’d be in the building through the night, and that, by way of added precaution, the guard outside her door would check on her periodically. That seemed to assuage her and she promised to be off to sleep soon, having had enough excitement for one day.
When the two men left Nurse Allan’s room it was a bit after eleven. Most of the night still lay ahead. They decided to continue their vigil by touring the rest of the layout. As they walked the crisply antiseptic corridors, Trout spoke with a bit of optimism.
“Don’t worry, doctor. Sooner or later he’s got to buck the oldest stone wall of them all�
��human error.”
“If you believe that, Mr. Trout, you’re giving the fiend a quality he’s scarcely exhibited in our contact with him.” Vesalius was rueful. “I’m afraid that if he’s stopped by anything, it’ll be by his own inflexible standards.”
“How do you mean that?”
The two men passed the sentries who stood stiffly at the elevators. Vesalius persisted:
“Let’s suppose that Phibes got out of that wreck alive. If he did, he would’ve been burned terribly or, equally terribly, injured—assuming he was thrown clear of the wreck before it exploded. He’s probably as unrecognizable to himself as he is to others, with the exception of old Darrow, a condition which has only increased his grief. That, and the awful fact of his wife’s death, is all that’s kept him going in the years since. A continuity with only one theme: revenge. So far he’s followed the classic pattern of the G’tach with precision.”
“You’re implying that he will not make a mistake.”
“Remember he’s a highly famed physicist. He’s acutely aware of errors in human calculation as well as their consequences. No, I’m afraid luck won’t enter into it, Inspector. If we’re to catch our man we must think quite precisely, quite mechanically. We will need to interrupt his process. Then, and only then, he becomes vulnerable.”
While they thrashed about on the imponderables of their quarry, a white-garbed attendant rolled a tea wagon out of the seventh floor elevator, moved unmolested past the double guard, trundled the jangling cart down the long corridor and entered room #724, which was positioned directly over Nurse Allan’s room on the floor below. Once inside, the man began pacing off certain measurements, marking off a large oblong on the wooden floor. Then he removed a small drill from the base of the tea cart and, bending to the work, proceeded to drill through the floor at a point directly in the center of the chalk oblong.
The drill pushed through. He removed it and squinted down through the hole. Pleased with what he saw, he unclasped a short rubber tube from a carboy on the undercarriage of the teacart, and after inserting the tubing into the hole, loosened a stopcock at the base of the carboy to send a green, treacly substance down the tube into the room below.
Dr. Phibes Page 16
