Elsewhere, Trout and Vesalius continued their lonely inspection.
“Three curses are left. Of course, doctor, there is the possibility that it might be your turn tonight.”
Vesalius abandoned his cold rationale. “I’ve considered that over and over, but I have a feeling that I will be the last. After all, I acted as a consultant in the case, not a participant. He may even overlook me entirely.”
“And he may not. If he’s going to follow the cycle, my friend, it will be darkness for you. And who knows what that will be.” They rounded a corner, their voices trailing off. Two floors below Nurse Allan lay quite still under a thin syrupy layering of chlorophyll which inexorably oozed from the two-gallon carboy above. The soft flow had not been enough to awaken her from a sleep induced by sedatives, and she still breathed, though the thick layering would soon literally suffocate her if she didn’t stir first.
To prevent that, Phibes released something else down the length of tubing: a horde of red army ants! The insects quickly covered the chlorophyll layering atop the sleeping Miss Allan. Green turned to black and then to red-black as the ants chewed their way first through the syrup and then, in a matter of a few seconds, through flesh and muscle.
She didn’t have a chance to scream but died in the earliest moments of the invasion, in part by suffocation and in part by the carnivorous onslaught which had reached her major vessels before there was any possibility of response.
Then, as if to emphasize the destruction, Phibes let loose a swarm of locusts in fulfillment of the “arecha.” Thousands of the green flying creatures shot out of the tubing and soon reduced the bed’s occupant to skeleton, hopping and flying about in a terrible fury of destruction. They spared nothing: drapery was shredded, chairs gnawed to toothpicks, the couch was shredded to a lintball.
As this flurry of destruction was taking place, Trout and Vesalius reached the first floor. They were still speaking of the remaining curses of the G’tach.
“What about the death of the first born? Have you considered that, doctor?”
“Indeed I have. I had an order brother but he’s long dead, and I feel that that fact excludes me from this particular curse.”
Trout pursued the logic. “Then you must resign yourself to the fact that I’m going to stay by your side until we finally apprehend this man. Of course, if your brother were still
alive. . . .”
Then a new thought struck him: “What about your first born?”
Vesalius paled. “Lem! My God!” He ran toward the entrance.
Trout shouted to Schenley who was just then coming into the building. “Tom! Take the doctor home. Put a guard around his place, alert the local division and stay in contact with me.”
Vesalius followed Schenley almost in a daze while Trout returned to his security check.
But its futility was now patent. Nurse Allan’s room had been reduced to a shambles. Not a stick of furniture or shred of cloth remained. The entire room was eaten down to the metal behind the walls. Even the plaster had been eaten. A lone electric bulb swinging from the half chewed wires was the only remnant intact.
It flickered dimly.
Chapter 16
“OH, No!”
The muffled shriek came from Doctor Vesalius’ apartment. Trout heard it with apprehension as he waited for the elevator doors to open. Another shock right on the heels of Nurse Allan’s death would be almost too much. Her room had literally been eaten down to the bare walls. Even the fixtures had gone before the swarm of locusts finally came to rest in a grey ball, twitching and lethal, above a window. He could only guess at the furious activity that had taken place in the room moments earlier. If the woman had offered any resistance it had been short and fruitless. Her skeleton, with a few locusts still caught in the dry hollows of the skull, was all that remained.
“No!”
Trout ran through the darkened apartment. Vesalius’ train layout seemed untouched. The kitchen door stood ajar, sending a thin shaft of yellow light into the dining room. A few pillows had been thrown about, giving the room a dishevelled look; otherwise there were no signs of a struggle.
Trout ran upstairs. It was different there. A wall closet was open, its linens strewn over the floor. Both bedroom doors were ajar and Trout could see books and clothing jumbled about inside the room. He found Vesalius in Lem’s room stiff with shock. The man’s face was contorted in anguish, his hands were clenched, and his tie and collar, usually so neat, stood open in disarray. But Trout was most disturbed by the man’s eyes, usually so calm and penetrating. They darted about now in a slow, wild, twitching fashion. Trout feared, the worst.
“He’s gone!”
“Schenley told me. We’ll do everything we can.” The room showed little sign of violence. “A glass of brandy might do both of us good.” He touched Vesalius very gently on the shoulder and motioned the doctor to join him downstairs. Trout didn’t like the way Vesalius looked at all. Even in the softened parlor light the man was ashen, drained of all color. His reserve, his measured disdain, no longer served him and without defenses, the man appeared in danger of coming apart. Trout had seen the same phenomenon at work among the family or close friends of victims. The average person usually cried it out and then went into a shell, often helped along by a few drinks. Vesalius was another matter; other than his brilliance, his insistance on privacy, and his eclecticism, Trout knew virtually nothing about the man. He seemed to have no family or close friends, his son being his only companion. Trout couldn’t guess the effect of the boy’s loss.
Vesalius eased stiffly into the sofa while Trout fixed the drinks. He stared, his eyes glassy, veiled. “How can it be?” he murmured, “how could I have known?”
The telephone rang.
Vesalius’ face flickered with a mixture of fear and expectation. He moved quickly to answer it. “Yes?”
Organ music drifted out of the earpiece, swelled, then the phone went dead. Vesalius, visibly shaken, put the receiver softly into its cradle and started back to the couch. Trout finished decanting the brandy just as the phone rang again. He capped the bottle and picked up an extension as Vesalius answered a second time. The voice on the line was metallic and all too familiar. “Nine killed her, nine shall die,” it said.
Vesalius shouted: “Is that Phibes? Phibes! Phibes!”
“Eight have died, soon to be nine. Nine eternities in doom.”
It was confirmed now. Vesalius grew urgent. “Where are you Phibes? I must talk with my son. Where is my son? Phibes!” Vesalius fought for control.
“The organ plays till midnight on Maldine Square. Come alone.” Then nothing. Vesalius hung up again, and glanced over at Trout, whom he seemed to recognize for the first time.
“I must go there. Perhaps hell accept my life instead of my son’s.”
Trout could see he’d have to argue the man out of it. He wasn’t prepared to give up another victim. “D’you think you can reason with a man of his stripe? If you do, you’re as mad as he is. Dr. Phibes will have his appointment this evening, but with more company than he’d expected.”
“You can’t be serious, Inspector. You heard him.‘Come alone’ were the instructions. The efforts of the police have caused him little discomfort thus far. Their pressure now will most certainly accelerate the death of my son.”
Trout was adamant. “I’m sorry, doctor, but I cannot let you go there alone.”
“But my son!”
“We’ll take every precaution.” Vesalius looked at him sullenly. “I’m prepared to stop you by force if necessary. I’m sorry, terribly sorry but you are my responsibility.”
Vesalius’ eyes narrowed. He turned away from Trout, his shoulders stooped in resignation. “Very well, Inspector. Whatever you say.”
Trout, relieved that the standoff was over, turned to the telephone to organize the final assault on Phibes. He scarcely saw the blur to his left and had no time whatever to dodge the heavy chessboard which Vesalius brought down on his
head. He crumpled to the floor.
Vesalius, now eager and full of purpose, quickly took his leave. “I’m sorry, too, Inspector, but my son is all that matters.”
He closed the door very quietly. Trout, breathing evenly now, would be out for another hour at least.
Vesalius raced to his car, started it, and lurched away from the curb just as the policeman Trout had stationed at the building’s entrance caught up with him. The poor man went sprawling as Vesalius pressed the accelerator to the floor.
His mind raced as he drove, trying to place Maldine Square. He knew it to be in Belgravia, but of its exact location he wasn’t sure. In less than five minutes he had the Lagonda slicing through the sedate streets of the district, and in another minute he’d found Maldine Square, a cobbled enclosure channelled off the main roadway. An organ, towering up from a shuttered building taller than the others, marked the house as Phibes’ own.
Vesalius parked the Lagonda on the outer road, ran the few steps along the cobbles and up the slate-tiered entrance to the mansion. The black oaken door had a brass marker shaped in the letter “P”.
He banged on the door. It opened.
He was surprised to see the young woman who greeted him in an elaborate oriental robe and feathered headdress. He’d imagined Phibes lived alone.
He entered the hallway to the towering sounds of a fugue which streamed from the only lighted room on the floor. He went straight to the light and entered the long ballroom without introduction just as the music peaked.
The cloaked figure at the far end of the room brought the fugue to a close with a mass of chords. Finished, he rose from the instrument, turned and faced Vesalius. It was Phibes.
The man moved toward him, his carriage that of a host. Vesalius was forced to contain his own rage. “I’ve come for my son,” he said.
“He will die at midnight.”
“If you must take a life, take mine.”
“I will have killed nine times in my life, Doctor Vesalius. How many murders can be attributed to you?”
Phibes had lessened the distance separating them with a stately, measured gait. The two men now stood facing each other, deadly adversaries and yet grim associates in that hour of their first meeting.
“I did not kill your wife.”
“No?”
“I tried to save her.”
Vesalius noticed the long cord in Phibes’ neck. That explained his hollow, metallic speech. Further, Phibes’ expression, save for his eyes, changed little during their conversation. Then it was clear that his features were artificial.
“You tried to save her . . .__with a knife in your hand.”
Phibes tore the rubber base away from his face. Nothing was left beneath. The accident had taken his face, his personality, perhaps even his soul. He went on, the gross shrivelled remnant of his face, giving brutal emphasis to his words. “You shall see your son, and under circumstances which may bring back memories to you, Vesalius.”
Phibes moved to the wall near him, and reaching behind a curtain, activated the lights in a room below. The scene which was illuminated through the thick glass floor panels fully revealed Phibes’ murderous inventiveness. The fiend had created an operating room, white tiled and brilliantly lit. On the long surgical table lay Vesalius’ son, Lem, masked in sheeting, his head bound in bandages. Vesalius gasped.
“What is it you want?”
“The skill of your hands, Doctor. I’m giving your son the same chance that my wife had. You need not be alarmed; he has already been anesthetized.”
Vesalius started forward, but Phibes restrained him, handing him over to Vumavia who opened a trap door which led to the room below. Vesalius started down with the girl, then paused. “If anything happens to him I will kill you.”
Phibes was imperious. “But you can’t Doctor. I’m already dead.”
Vesalius hurried down the short staircase to a small dressing room where, assisted by Vulnavia, he made himself ready as best he could.
At the same time Trout was groping about the darkened parlor of Vesalius’ apartment in an effort to clear his head. Abruptly he remembered the preceding events, and grabbing his coat, dashed out to find Schenley, followed by a squad of men, just coming into the building. He grabbed Tom on the run and, giving him a quick summary of Vesalius’ flight, set off for Maldine Square.
Vesalius entered the operating room, groping for the last reserves of his ability to guide him. A viewing panel lit up, illuminating an X-ray plate. Phibes’ voice droned through a loudspeaker.
“An X-ray of your son’s rib cage, Vesalius. You will observe that a tiny key has been lodged close to his heart. It will unlock the halter around your son’s neck and free the trolley on which he rests.”
Vesalius studied the plate, then looked over at the operating table as Phibes droned on.
“If you’re wondering why you need to free the table, then I suggest you look above your son’s head, Doctor.”
Vesalius’ eyes darted to the ceiling from which a large glass spiral tube coiled downward. As he watched, it dropped a few more inches, rotating like a snake ready to strike, finally coming to rest a few feet above his son’s head. Phibes’ voice went on evenly, precise and absolutely cruel in its absence of any modulation: “In a few moments acid will be released into that tube. Because of its viscosity it will move down slowly—but inexorably—to the lower outlet. In six minutes it will be directly over the boy’s head. Exactly six minutes, doctor.”
Vesalius was horrified. “For God’s sake!”
“Oh don’t cry upon God, Doctor Vesalius. He is on my side. He led me, showed me the way in my quest for retribution. Look not to God, Doctor, look to yourself, those hands, those skilled hands of yours. You can be the boy’s only salvation. Look above him, Doctor.”
Vesalius hurried into his gloves, helped by Vulnavia who then wheeled an instrument table into position. Phibes’ voice continued:
“Did you know that my wife existed only six minutes on the operating table. Six minutes and she was dead. You murdered her.”
Vesalius snarled through his mask as he selected his instruments. “No!”
“Murdered her. But you have what she did not: a second chance. You must operate and remove the key, the key that will unlock the band around his neck. Six minutes, Doctor . . . six minutes. Perhaps your hands will shake and he will die under your knife, but six minutes is all you have.”
Phibes’ tirade had frozen Vesalius into immobility. He was trapped in the white, sterile silence of the operating room as the loudspeaker went dead, caught by the bitter extremity of his situation. Then the organ began, this time with the thin strains of a popular love tune. Still he did nothing.
“Doctor, Doctor!” Phibes said above the music. Vesalius looked up. “The acid has started to descend.”
Vesalius fought his inaction for another agonizing second, then turned to his son and prepared to operate. His gloved hands moved into the prescribed, deliberate patterns, preparing the surface of the chest at a point just below the heart, where Phibes had lodged the key. “I leave you to your operation, Doctor,” the fiend said. “I know surgeons require the utmost concentration, especially in circumstances like this. Vulnavia and I will be watching.”
Vesalius made the first incision: the solution was now in his hands.
In the ballroom upstairs Phibes was preparing for a conclusion of another kind. He played an overture while Vulnavia moved about the room ripping curtains, tipping over furniture, and tearing the lights from the walls. Phibes’ music kept pace with the girl’s furious activity. It seemed rehearsed, a prelude to something larger.
Vesalius was too busy to be bothered with the crashing overhead. He worked at a heightened pace, a pace sustained only by his great skill and control. He’d gotten past the outer layer of skin, which was now held back by a large retractor, and was slicing the fascia over the rib cage. He mopped feverishly with a wad of sponge, placed a few hemostats to control the bleeding,
and then grabbed the bone saw to break into the thoracic cavity.
The acid was halfway down the glass helix!
Phibes, his head back in perverse rapture, played the organ at full volume. Behind him the ballroom was in a shambles. The crystal lamps lay smashed on the floor. The drapery had either been pulled down, or hung against the Casino Royale backdrop in forlorn shreds. Two of the three overhead chandeliers were also down, smashed to bits on the floor. The other had been broken where it hung: only one large electric bulb glowed through the shards of glass which remained. The large ballroom, once so ornate, was now in ruins.
But despite that, Phibes seemed pleased as he pedalled and played the heavy strains, sneaking a glance now and then at Vulnavia who had started on the wainscotting along one wall and was stripping it off, piece by piece. The puppet orchestra, their tuxedos flecked by bits of plaster and glass, sat in a comic expressionless patience.
Vesalius finished sawing and gingerly bent back the eighth and ninth ribs to reveal the small heart pulsing regularly. The sight of it charged his own resolve. He seized a probe and began the search for the key. It took a few tense seconds before he found it.
The acid had inched well past the halfway point. Vesalius would still have to remove the key, which was lodged beneath the heart, before he could free the table.
Phibes observed his efforts through the glass panel above. He saw Vesalius locate the key, drew back when the probe made contact, then glowered triumphantly when he lost it. Vesalius reached deep into the thorax below the heart. Finally he had the key; it was out; he was holding it in his hand. The acid seeped closer. Would it be close enough? Phibes tensed expectantly.
Suddenly a heavy hammering shook the front door. Phibes’ eyes shot toward the hallway, then back to Vulnavia. At a signal she drew a pearl-handled revolver from her belt and fired at the tall mirrors above the ruined wainscotting.
Dr. Phibes Page 17
