The red light was dim. All Carnevan could see was a head, and a shapeless body concealed by a dark cloak as the man—or boy—squatted. Yet the sight of that head was enough to make his heart jump excitedly.
For it was not entirely human. At first Carnevan had thought it was a skull. The face was thin, with pale, translucent skin of finest ivory laid lightly over the bone, and it was completely hairless. It was triangular, delicately wedgeshaped, without the ugly protruding knobs of the cheekbones which make human skulls so often hideous. The eyes were certainly inhuman. They slanted up almost to where the hair line would have been had the being possessed hair, and they were like cloudy, gray-green stone, flecked with opalescent dancing lights, red-tinted now by the light.
It was a singularly beautiful face, with the clear, passionless perfection of polished bone. The body Carnevan could not see, hidden as it was by the cloak.
Was that strange face a mask? Carnevan knew it was not. By the subtle, unmistakable revolt of his whole physical being, he knew that he looked upon a horror.
With an automatic reflex, he took out a cigarette and lighted it. The being had made no move meanwhile, and Carnevan abruptly realized that the compass needle in his brain had vanished.
Smoke coiled up from his cigarette. He, Gerald Carnevan, was standing in this dim, red-lit room, with a fake medium in, presumably, a fake trance behind him, and—something—crouching only a few feet away. Outside, a block distant, was Columbus Circle, with electric signs and traffic.
Electric lights meant advertising. A key clicked in Carnevan’s brain. Get the customer wondering. In this case he seemed to be the customer. The direct approach was hell on salesmen and their foreplanned tactics. Carnevan began to walk directly toward the being.
THE SOFT, pink, childish lips parted. “Wait,” a singularly gentle voice commanded. “Don’t cross the pentagram, Carnevan. You can’t anyway, but you might start a fire.”
“That tears it,” the man remarked, almost laughing. “Spirits don’t speak colloquial English. What’s the idea?”
“Well,” said the other, not moving, “to begin with, you may call me Azazel. I’m not a spirit. I’m rather more of a demon. As for colloquial English, when I enter your world I naturally adjust myself to it—or am adjusted. My own tongue cannot be heard here. I’m speaking it, but you hear the Earthly equivalent. It’s automatically adjusted to your capabilities.”
“All right,” Carnevan said. “Now what?” He blew smoke through his nostrils.
“You’re skeptical,” Azazel said, still motionless. “I could convince you in a moment by leaving the pentagram, but I can’t do that without your help. At present, the space I’m occupying exists in both our worlds, coincidentally. I am a demon. Carnevan, and I want to strike a bargain with you.”
“I expect flashlight bulbs to go off in a moment. But you can fake all the photos you want, if that’s the game. I won’t pay blackmail,” Carnevan said, thinking of Diana and making a mental reservation.
“You do,” Azazel remarked, and gave a brief, pithy history of the man’s relations with Diana Bellamy.
Carnevan felt himself flushing. “That’s enough,” he said curtly. “It is blackmail, eh?”
“Please let me explain—from the beginning. I got in touch with you first at the seance last week. It’s incredibly difficult for inhabitants of my . . . my dimension to establish contact with human beings. But in this case I managed it. I implanted certain thoughts in your subconscious mind and held you by those.”
“What sort of thoughts?”
“Gratifications,” Azazel said. “The death of your senior partner. The removal of Diana Bellamy. Wealth. Power. Triumph. Secretly you treasured those thoughts, and so a link was established between us. Not enough, however, for I couldn’t really communicate with you till I’d worked on Madame Nefert.”
“Go on,” Carnevan said quietly. “She’s a charlatan, of course.”
“So she is.” Azazel smiled. “But she is a Celt. A violin is useless without a violinist. I managed to control her somewhat, and induced her to make the necessary preparations so I could materialize. Then I drew you here.”
“Do you expect me to believe you?”
The other’s shoulders stirred restlessly. “That is the difficulty. If you accept me, I can serve you well—very well indeed. But you will not do that until you believe.”
“I’m not Faust,” Carnevan said. “Even if I did believe you, why do you think I’d want to—” He stopped.
“You are human,” Azazel said.
FOR A SECOND there was silence. Carnevan angrily dropped his cigarette and crushed it out. “All the legends of history,” he muttered. “Folklore—all full of it. Bargains with demons. And always at a price. But I’m an atheist, or an agnostic. Not sure which. A soul—I can’t believe I have one. When I die, it’s a blackout.”
Azazel studied him thoughtfully. “There must be a fee, of course.” A curious expression crossed the being’s face. There was mockery in it. and fear, too. When he spoke again his voice was hurried.
“I can serve you, Carnevan. I can give you anything you desire—everything, I believe.”
“Why did you choose me?”
“The seance drew me. You were the only one present I could touch.”
Scarcely flattered, Carnevan frowned. It was impossible for him to believe. He said, at last, “I wouldn’t mind—if I thought this wasn’t merely some trick. Tell me more about it. Just what you could do for me.”
Azazel spoke further. When he had finished, Carnevan’s eyes were glistening.
“Even a little of that—”
“It is easy enough,” Azazel urged. “All is ready. The ceremony does not take long, and I’ll guide you step by step.”
Carnevan clicked his tongue, smiling. “There it is. I can’t believe. I tell myself that you’re real—but deep inside my brain I’m trying to find a logical explanation. And that’s all too easy. If I were convinced you are what you say and can—”
Azazel interrupted. “Do you know anything about teratology?”
“Eh? Why—just the layman’s knowledge.”
The being stood up slowly. He was wearing, Carnevan saw, a voluminous cloak of some dark, opaque, shimmering material.
He said, “If there is no other way of convincing you—and since I cannot leave the pentagram—I must take this means.”
A sickening premonition shot through Carnevan as he saw delicate, slim hands fumbling at the fastenings of the cloak. Azazel cast it aside.
Almost instantly he wrapped the garment around him. Carnevan had not moved. But there was blood trickling down his chin.
Then silence, till the man tried to speak, a hoarse, croaking noise that rasped through the room. Carnevan found his voice.
Unexpectedly his words came out in a half shriek. Abruptly he whirled and went to a corner, where he stood with his forehead pressed hard against the wall. When he returned, his face was more composed, though sweat gleamed on it.
“Yes,” he said. “Yes?”
“This is the way—” Azazel began.
THE NEXT MORNING Carnevan sat at his desk and talked quietly to the demon, who lounged in a chair, invisible to all but one man, and his voice equally masked. Sunlight slanted in through the windows, and a cool breeze brought in the muffled clamor of traffic. Azazel seemed incredibly real sitting there, his body muffled by the cloak, his skull-like, beautiful head whitened by the sunlight.
“Speak softly,” the demon cautioned. “No one can hear me, but they can hear you. Whisper—or just think. It will be clear to me.”
“Fair enough.” Carnevan rubbed his freshly shaven cheek. “We’d better lay out a plan of campaign. You’ll have to earn my soul, you know.”
“Eh?” For a second the demon looked puzzled; then he laughed softly. “I’m at your service.”
“First—we must arouse no suspicion. Nobody would believe the truth, but I don’t want them thinking I’m insane—as I
may be,” Carnevan continued logically. “But we’ll not consider that point just now. What about Madame Nefert? How much does she know?”
“Nothing at all,” Azazel said. “She was in a trance while under my control. She remembered nothing when she woke. Still, if you prefer, I can kill her.”
Carnevan held up his hand. “Steady on! That’s just where people like Faust made their mistakes. They went hog-wild, got drunk on power, and wrapped themselves up till they couldn’t even move. Any murders we may commit must be necessary. Here! Just how much control have I over you?”
“A good deal,” Azazel admitted. “Suppose I asked you to kill yourself—told you to do so?”
For answer, the demon picked up a paper knife from the desk and thrust it deeply into his cloak. Remembering what lay under that garment, Carnevan glanced away hurriedly.
Smiling, Azazel replaced the knife. “Suicide is impossible to a demon, by any means.”
“Can’t you be killed at all?”
There was a little silence. Then—“Not by you,” Azazel said.
Carnevan shrugged. “I’m checking up all the angles. I want to know just where I stand. You must obey me, though. Is that right?”
Azazel nodded.
“SO. Now I don’t want a million dollars in gold dumped into my lap. Gold’s illegal, anyway, and people would ask questions. Any advantages I get must come naturally, without arousing the slightest suspicion. If Eli Dale died, the firm would be without a senior partner. I’d get the job. It carries enough money for my purposes.”
“I can get you the largest fortune in the world,” the demon suggested.
Carnevan laughed a little. “And then? Everything would be far too easy for me. I want to feel the thrill of achieving things myself—with some help from you. If you cheat once at solitaire, it’s different from cheating all through the game. I have a good deal of faith in myself, and want to justify that—build up my ego. People like Faust grew jaded. King Solomon must have been bored to death. Then, too, he never used his brain, and I’ll bet it atrophied. Look at Merlin!” Carnevan smiled. “He got so used to calling up devils to do what he wanted that a young snip got the best of him without any trouble. No, Azazel—I want Eli Dale to die, but naturally.”
The demon looked at his slim, pale hands.
Carnevan shrugged. “Can you change your form?”
“Of course.”
“Into anything?”
For answer, Azazel became, in rapid succession, a large black dog, a lizard, a rattlesnake, and Carnevan himself. Finally he resumed his own form and relaxed again in the chair.
“None of those disguises would help you kill Dale,” Carnevan grunted. “We want something that won’t be suspected. Do you know what disease germs are, Azazel?”
“I know, from your mind,” the other nodded.
“Could you transform yourself into toxins?”
“Why not? If I knew which one you wished, I’d locate a specimen, duplicate its atomic structure, and enter it with my own life force.”
“Spinal meningitis,” Carnevan said thoughtfully. “That’s fatal enough. It’d knock over a man in Dale’s senile condition. But I forget whether it’s a germ or a virus.”
“That doesn’t matter,” Azazel said. “I’ll locate a slide or specimen of the stuff—some hospital should do—and then materialize inside Dale’s body as the disease.”
“Will it be the same thing?”
“Yes.”
“Good enough. The toxin will propagate, I suppose, and that’ll be the end of Dale. If it isn’t, we’ll try something else.”
He turned back to his work, and Azazel vanished. The morning dragged past slowly. Carnevan ate at a nearby restaurant, wondering what his familiar demon was doing, and was rather surprised to find that he had a hearty appetite. During the afternoon, Diana phoned. She had, apparently, found out about Carnevan’s engagement to Phyllis. She had already telephoned Phyllis.
Carnevan hung up, rigidly repressing his violent rage. After a brief moment he dialed Phyllis’ number. She was not at home, he was told.
“Tell her I’ll be out to see her tonight,” he growled, and slammed the receiver down in its cradle. It was rather a relief to look up and see the shrouded form of Azazel in the chair.
‘It’s done,” the demon said. “Dale has spinal meningitis. He doesn’t know it yet, but the toxin propagated very rapidly. A curious experiment. But it worked.”
Carnevan tried to focus his mind. It was Phyllis he was thinking of now. He was in love with her, of course—but she was so damned rigid, so incredibly Puritanical. He had made one slip in the past. In her eyes, that might be enough. Would she break the engagement? Surely not! In this day and age, amorous peccadilloes were more or less taken for granted, even by a girl who had been reared in Boston. Carnevan considered his fingernails.
After a time he made an excuse to see Eli Dale, asking his advice on some unimportant business problem, and scrutinized carefully the old man’s face. Dale was flushed and bright-eyed, but otherwise seemed normal. Yet the mark of death was on him, Carnevan knew. He would die, the senior partnership would devolve on someone else—and the first step in Carnevan’s plan was taken.
As for Phyllis and Diana—why, after all, he owned a familiar demon! With the powers at his control, he could solve this problem, too. Just how he would do that, Carnevan did not know as yet; ordinary methods, he thought, should be used first in every case. He must not grow too dependent on magic.
He dismissed Azazel for the time and drove that night to Phyllis’ home. But before that, he made a stop at Diana’s apartment. The scene was brief and stormy while it lasted.
DARK, slim, furious and lovely, Diana said she wouldn’t let him marry.
“Why not?” Carnevan wanted to know. “After all, my dear, if you want money, I can arrange that.”
Diana said unpleasant things about Phyllis. She hurled an ash tray down and stamped on it. “So I’m not good enough to marry! But she is!”
“Sit down and be quiet,” Carnevan suggested. “Try and analyze your feelings—”
“You cold-blooded fish!”
“—and see just, where you stand. You’re not in love with me. Dangling me on a string gives you a feeling of power and possession. You don’t want any other woman to have me.”
“I pity any woman who does,” Diana remarked, selecting another ash tray. She looked remarkably pretty, but Carnevan was in no mood to appreciate beauty.
“All right,” he said. “Listen to me. If you string along, you won’t lack for money—or anything. But if you try to cause trouble again, you’ll certainly regret it.”
“I don’t scare easily,” Diana snapped. “Where are you going? Off to see that yellow-haired wench, I suppose?”
Carnevan favored her with an imperturbable smile, donned his topcoat, and vanished. He drove to the home of the yellow-haired wench, where he encountered not-unforeseen difficulties. But finally he out-argued the maid and was ushered in to face an icicle sitting silently on a couch. It was Mrs. Mardrake.
“Phyllis does not wish to see you, Gerald,” she said, her prim mouth biting off the words.
Carnevan girded his loins and began to talk. He talked well. So convincing was his story that he almost persuaded himself that Diana was a myth—that the whole affair had been cooked up by some personal enemy. Mrs. Mardrake finally capitulated, after an internal struggle of some length.
“There must be no scandal,” she said at last. “If I thought there was a word of truth in what that woman said to Phyllis—”
“A man in my position has enemies,” Carnevan said, thus reminding his hostess that, maritally speaking, he was a fish worth hooking. She sighed.
“Very well, Gerald. I’ll ask Phyllis to see you. Wait here.”
She swept out of the room, and Carnevan suppressed a smile. Yet he knew it would not be this easy to convince Phyllis.
She did not appear immediately. Carnevan guessed that Mrs. Mard
rake was having difficulty in persuading her daughter of his bona fides. He wandered about the room, taking out his cigarette case and then, with a glance at the surroundings, putting it back. What a Victorian house!
A heavy family bible on its stand caught his eye. For want of anything else to do, he went toward it, opening the book at random. A passage leaped up at him.
“If any man worship the beast and his image, and receive his mark in his forehead, or in his hand, the same shall drink of the wine of the wrath of God.”
It was, perhaps, an instinctive reaction that made Carnevan reach up to touch his forehead. He smiled at the conceit. Superstition! Yes—but so were demons.
AT THAT MOMENT Phyllis came in, looking like Evangeline in Acadia, with much the same martyred expression Longfellow’s heroine might have worn. Suppressing an ungallant impulse to kick her, Carnevan reached for her hands, failed to capture them, and followed her to a couch.
Puritanism and a pious upbringing has its drawbacks, he thought. This became more evident when, after ten minutes, Phyllis still remained unconvinced of Carnevan’s innocence.
“I didn’t tell mother everything,” she said quietly. “That woman said some things—Well, I could see she was telling the truth.”
“I love you,” Carnevan said inconsequentially.
“You don’t. Or you’d never have taken up with this woman.”
“Even if it happened before I knew you?”
“I could forgive many things, Gerald,” she said, “but not that.”
“You,” Carnevan remarked, “don’t want a husband. You want a graven image.”
It was impossible to break through her calm self-righteousness. Carnevan lost his self-possession. He argued and pleaded, despising himself as he did so.
Of all the women in the world, he had to fall in love with the most hide-bound and Puritanical of them all. Her silence had the quality of enraging him almost to hysteria. He had an impulse to shout obscenities into the room’s quiet, religious atmosphere. Phyllis, he knew, was humiliating him horribly, and deep within him something cowered rawly under the lashing he could not stop himself from giving it.
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