The A. Merritt Megapack

by Abraham Merritt

  Not, of course, with minute fidelity, but still with amazing accuracy…there were no joints nor articulations…the substance of which the doll was made was astonishingly pliant…the little hands flexible…it was more like dissecting some living mannikin than a doll…And it was rather dreadful…

  I glanced toward the severed head.

  McCann was bending over it, staring down into its eyes, his own not more than a few inches away from the glinting blue crystals. His hands clutched the table edge and I saw that they were strained and tense as though he were making a violent effort to push himself away. When he had tossed the head upon the table it had come to rest against the knotted cord—but now that cord was twisted around the doll’s severed neck and around its forehead as though it were a small serpent!

  And distinctly I saw that McCann’s face was moving closer…slowly closer…to that tiny one…as though it were being drawn to it…and that in the little face a living evil was concentrated and that McCann’s face was a mask of horror.

  “McCann!” I cried, and thrust an arm under his chin, jerking back his head. And as I did this I could have sworn the doll’s eyes turned to me, and that its lips writhed.

  McCann staggered back. He stared at me for a moment, and then leaped to the table. He picked up the doll’s head, dashed it to the floor and brought his heel down upon it again and again, like one stamping out the life of a venomous spider. Before he ceased, the head was a shapeless blotch, all semblance of humanity or anything else crushed out of it—but within it the two blue crystals that had been its eyes still glinted, and the knotted cord of the witch’s ladder still wound through it.

  “God! It was…was drawing me down to it…”

  McCann lighted a cigarette with shaking hand, tossed the match away. The match fell upon what had been the doll’s head.

  There followed, simultaneously, a brilliant flash, a disconcerting sobbing sound and a wave of intense heat. Where the crushed head had been there was now only an irregularly charred spot upon the polished wood. Within it lay the blue crystals that had been the eyes of the doll—lusterless and blackened. The knotted cord had vanished.

  And the body of the doll had disappeared. Upon the table was a nauseous puddle of black waxy liquid out of which lifted the ribs of the wire skeleton!

  The Annex ’phone rang; mechanically I answered it.

  “Yes,” I said. “What is it?”

  “Mr. Ricori, sir. He’s out of the coma. He’s awake!”

  I turned to McCann.

  “Ricori’s come through!”

  He gripped my shoulders—then drew a step away, a touch of awe on his face.

  “Yeah?” whispered McCann. “Yeah—he came through when the knots burned! It freed him! It’s you an’ me that’s got to watch our step now!”

  CHAPTER VIII

  NURSE WALTERS’ DIARY

  I took McCann up with me to Ricori’s bedside. Confrontation with his chief would be the supreme test, I felt, resolving one way or another all my doubts as to his sincerity. For I realized, almost immediately, that bizarre as had been the occurrences I have just narrated, each and all of them could have been a part of the elaborate hocus-pocus with which I had tentatively charged the gunman. The cutting off of the doll’s head could have been a dramatic gesture designed to impress my imagination. It was he who had called my attention to the sinister reputation of the knotted cord. It was McCann who had found the pin. His fascination by the severed head might have been assumed. And the tossing of the match a calculated action designed to destroy evidence. I did not feel that I could trust my own peculiar reactions as valid.

  And yet it was difficult to credit McCann with being so consummate an actor, so subtle a plotter. Ah, but he could be following the instructions of another mind capable of such subtleties. I wanted to trust McCann. I hoped that he would pass the test. Very earnestly I hoped it.

  The test was ordained to failure. Ricori was fully conscious, wide awake, his mind probably as alert and sane as ever. But the lines of communication were still down. His mind had been freed, but not his body. The paralysis persisted, forbidding any muscular movements except the deep-seated unconscious reflexes essential to the continuance of life. He could not speak. His eyes looked up at me, bright and intelligent, but from an expressionless face…looked up at McCann with the same unchanging stare.

  McCann whispered: “Can he hear?”

  “I think so, but he has no way of telling us.”

  The gunman knelt beside the bed and took Ricori’s hands in his. He said, clearly: “Everything’s all right, boss. We’re all on the job.”

  Not the utterance nor the behavior of a guilty man—but then I had told him Ricori could not answer. I said to Ricori:

  “You’re coming through splendidly. You’ve had a severe shock, and I know the cause. I’d rather you were this way for a day or so than able to move about. I have a perfectly good medical reason for this. Don’t worry, don’t fret, try not to think of anything unpleasant. Let your mind relax. I’m going to give you a mild hypo. Don’t fight it. Let yourself sleep.”

  I gave him the hypodermic, and watched with satisfaction its quick effect. It convinced me that he had heard.

  I returned to my study with McCann. I was doing some hard thinking. There was no knowing how long Ricori would remain in the grip of the paralysis. He might awaken in an hour fully restored, or it might hold him for days. In the meantime there were three things I felt it necessary to ascertain. The first that a thorough watch was being kept upon the place where Ricori had gotten the doll; second, that everything possible be found out about the two women McCann had described; third, what it was that had made Ricori go there. I had determined to take the gunman’s story of the happenings at the store at their face value—for the moment at least. At the same time, I did not want to admit him into my confidence any more than was necessary.

  “McCann,” I began, “have you arranged to keep the doll store under constant surveillance, as we agreed last night?”

  “You bet. A flea couldn’t hop in or out without being spotted.”

  “Any reports?”

  “The boys ringed the joint close to midnight. The front’s all dark. There’s a building in the back an’ a space between it an’ the rear of the joint. There’s a window with a heavy shutter, but a line of light shows under it. About two o’clock this fish-white gal comes slipping up the street and lets in. The boys at the back hear a hell of a squalling, an’ then the light goes out. This morning the gal opens the shop. After a while the hag shows up, too. They’re covered, all right.”

  “What have you found out about them?”

  “The hag calls herself Madame Mandilip. The gal’s her niece. Or so she says. They rode in about eight months since. Nobody knows where from. Pay their bills regular. Seem to have plenty of money. Niece does all the marketing. The old woman never goes out. Keep to themselves like a pair of clams. Have strictly nothing to do with the neighbors. The hag has a bunch of special customers—rich-looking people many of them. Does two kinds of trade, it looks—regular dolls, an’ what goes with ’em, an’ special dolls which they say the old woman’s a wonder at. Neighbors ain’t a bit fond of ’em. Some of ’em think she’s handling dope. That’s all yet.”

  Special dolls? Rich people?

  Rich people like the spinster Bailey, the banker Marshall?

  Regular dolls—for people like the acrobat, the bricklayer? But these might have been “special” too, in ways McCann could not know.

  “There’s the store,” he continued. “Back of it two or three rooms. Upstairs a big room like a storeroom. They rent the whole place. The hag an’ the wench, they live in the rooms behind the store.”

  “Good work!” I applauded, and hesitated—“McCann, did the doll remind you of somebody?”

  He studied me with narrowed eyes.

  “You tell me,” he said at last, dryly.

  “Well—I thought it resembled Peters.”

 
“Thought it resembled!” he exploded. “Resembled—hell! It was the lick-an’-spit of Peters!”

  “Yet you said nothing to me of that. Why?” I asked, suspiciously.

  “Well I’m damned—” he began, then caught himself. “I knowed you seen it. I thought you kept quiet account of Shevlin, an’ followed your lead. Afterwards you were so busy putting me through the jumps there wasn’t a chance.”

  “Whoever made that doll must have known Peters quite well.” I passed over this dig. “Peters must have sat for the doll as one sits for an artist or a sculptor. Why did he do it? When did he do it? Why did anyone desire to make a doll like him?”

  “Let me work on the hag for an hour an’ I’ll tell you,” he answered, grimly.

  “No,” I shook my head. “Nothing of that sort until Ricori can talk. But maybe we can get some light in another way. Ricori had a purpose in going to that store. I know what it was. But I do not know what directed his attention to the store. I have reason to believe it was information he gained from Peters’ sister. Do you know her well enough to visit her and to draw from her what it was she told Ricori yesterday? Casually—tactfully—without telling her of Ricori’s illness?”

  He said, bluntly: “Not without you give me more of a lead—Mollie’s no fool.”

  “Very well. I am not aware whether Ricori told you, but the Darnley woman is dead. We think there is a connection between her death and Peters’ death. We think that it has something to do with the love of both of them for Mollie’s baby. The Darnley woman died precisely as Peters did—”

  He whispered—“You mean with the same—trimmings?”

  “Yes. We had reason to think that both might have picked up the—the disease—in the same place. Ricori thought that perhaps Mollie might know something which would identify that place. A place where both of them might have gone, not necessarily at the same time, and have been exposed to—the infection. Maybe even a deliberate infection by some ill-disposed person. Quite evidently what Ricori learned from Mollie sent him to the Mandilips. There is one awkward thing, however—unless Ricori told her yesterday, she does not know her brother is dead.”

  “That’s right,” he nodded. “He gave orders about that.”

  “If he did not tell her, you must not.”

  “You’re holding back quite a lot, ain’t you, Doc?” He drew himself up to go.

  “Yes,” I said, frankly. “But I’ve told you enough.”

  “Yeah? Well, maybe.” He regarded me, somberly. “Anyway, I’ll soon know if the boss broke the news to Mollie. If he did, it opens up the talk natural. If he didn’t—well, I’ll call you up after I’ve talked to her. Hasta luego.”

  With this half-mocking adieu he took his departure. I went over to the remains of the doll upon the table. The nauseous puddle had hardened. In hardening it had roughly assumed the aspect of a flattened human body. It had a peculiarly unpleasant appearance, with the miniature ribs and the snapped wire of the spine glinting above it. I was overcoming my reluctance to collect the mess for analysis when Braile came in. I was so full of Ricori’s awakening, and of what had occurred, that it was some time before I noticed his pallor and gravity. I stopped short in the recital of my doubts regarding McCann to ask him what was the matter.

  “I woke up this morning thinking of Harriet,” he said. “I knew the 4-9-1 code, if it was a code, could not have meant Diana. Suddenly it struck me that it might mean Diary. The idea kept haunting me. When I had a chance I took Robbins and went to the apartment. We searched, and found Harriet’s diary. Here it is.”

  He handed me a little red-bound book. He said: “I’ve gone through it.”

  I opened the book. I set down the parts of it pertinent to the matter under review.

  Nov. 3. Had a queer sort of experience today. Dropped down to Battery Park to look at the new fishes in the Aquarium. Had an hour or so afterwards and went poking around some of the old streets, looking for something to take home to Diana. Found the oddest little shop. Quaint and old looking with some of the loveliest dolls and dolls’ clothes in the window I’ve ever seen. I stood looking at them and peeping into the shop through the window. There was a girl in the shop. Her back was turned to me. She turned suddenly and looked at me. She gave me the queerest kind of shock. Her face was white, without any color whatever and her eyes were wide and sort of staring and frightened. She had a lot of hair, all ashen blonde and piled up on her head. She was the strangest looking girl I think I’ve ever seen. She stared at me for a full minute and I at her. Then she shook her head violently and made motions with her hands for me to go away. I was so astonished I could hardly believe my eyes. I was about to go in and ask her what on earth was the matter with her when I looked at my watch and found I had just time to get back to the hospital. I looked into the shop again and saw a door at the back beginning slowly to open. The girl made one last and it seemed almost despairing gesture. There was something about it that suddenly made me want to run. But I didn’t. I did walk away though. I’ve puzzled about the thing all day. Also, besides being curious I’m a bit angry. The dolls and clothes are beautiful. What’s wrong with me as a customer? I’m going to find out.

  Nov. 5. I went back to the doll shop this afternoon. The mystery deepens. Only I don’t think it’s much of a mystery. I think the poor thing is a bit crazy. I didn’t stop to look in the window but went right in the door. The white girl was at a little counter at the back. When she saw me her eyes looked more frightened than ever and I could see her tremble. I went up to her and she whispered, “Oh, why did you come back? I told you to go away!” I laughed, I couldn’t help it, and I said: “You’re the queerest shopkeeper I ever met. Don’t you want people to buy your things?” She said low and very quickly: “It’s too late! You can’t go now! But don’t touch anything. Don’t touch anything she gives you. Don’t touch anything she points out to you.” And then in the most everyday way she said quite clearly: “Is there anything I can show you? We have everything for dolls.” The transition was so abrupt that it was startling. Then I saw that a door had opened in the back of the shop, the same door I had seen opening before, and that a woman was standing in it looking at me.

  I gaped at her I don’t know how long. She was so truly extraordinary. She must be almost six feet and heavy, with enormous breasts. Not fat. Powerful. She has a long face and her skin is brown. She has a distinct mustache and a mop of iron-gray hair.

  It was her eyes that held me spellbound. They are simply enormous black and so full of life! She must have a tremendous vitality. Or maybe it is the contrast with the white girl who seems to be drained of life. No, I’m sure she has a most unusual vitality. I had the queerest thrill when she was looking at me. I thought, nonsensically—“What big eyes you have, grandma!” “The better to see you with, my dear!” “What big teeth you have, grandma!” “The better to eat you with, my dear!” (I’m not so sure though that it was all nonsense.) And she really has big teeth, strong and yellow. I said, quite stupidly: “How do you do?” She smiled and touched me with her hand and I felt another queer thrill. Her hands are the most beautiful I ever saw. So beautiful, they are uncanny. Long with tapering fingers and so white. Like the hands El Greco or Botticelli put on their women. I suppose that is what gave me the odd shock. They don’t seem to belong to her immense coarse body at all. But neither do the eyes. The hands and the eyes go together. Yes, that’s it.

  She smiled and said: “You love beautiful things.” Her voice belongs to hands and eyes. A deep rich glowing contralto. I could feel it go through me like an organ chord. I nodded. She said: “Then you shall see them, my dear. Come.” She paid no attention to the girl. She turned to the door and I followed her. As I went through the door I looked back at the girl. She appeared more frightened than ever and distinctly I saw her lips form the word—“Remember.”

  The room she led me into was—well, I can’t describe it. It was like her eyes and hands and voice.

  When I went into it I had the
strange feeling that I was no longer in New York. Nor in America. Nor anywhere on earth, for that matter. I had the feeling that the only real place that existed was the room. It was frightening. The room was larger than it seemed possible it could be, judging from the size of the store. Perhaps it was the light that made it seem so. A soft mellow, dusky light. It is exquisitely paneled, even the ceiling. On one side there is nothing but these beautiful old dark panelings with carvings in very low relief covering them. There is a fireplace and a fire was burning in it. It was unusually warm but the warmth was not oppressive. There was a faint fragrant odor, probably from the burning wood. The furniture is old and exquisite too, but unfamiliar. There are some tapestries, clearly ancient. It is curious, but I find it difficult to recall clearly just what is in that room. All that is clear is its unfamiliar beauty. I do remember clearly an immense table, and I recall thinking of it as a “baronial board.” And I remember intensely the round mirror, and I don’t like to think of that.

  I found myself telling her all about myself and about Diana, and how she loved beautiful things. She listened, and said in that deep, sweet voice, “She shall have one beautiful thing, my dear.” She went to a cabinet and came to me with the loveliest doll I have ever seen. It made me gasp when I thought how Di would love it. A little baby doll, and so life-like and exquisite. “Would she like that?” she asked. I said: “But I could never afford such a treasure. I’m poor.” And she laughed, and said: “But I am not poor. This shall be yours when I have finished dressing it.”

  It was rude, but I could not help saying: “You must be very, very rich to have all these lovely things. I wonder why you keep a doll store.” And she laughed again and said, “Just to meet nice people like you, my dear.”