by John Burke
“No.” Her whisper was fierce and urgent. “I can’t go alone.”
“I’ll be with you as soon as I can. We’ll be together—tomorrow at the latest. Even later today perhaps I can manage it.”
“I won’t go.”
Up the stairs and along the landing, like a snarling animal, came the growl of Inspector Kanof. “We have reason to believe she’s here now. I have a search warrant. I understand the house is rented by Mr. Heitz. If you will call him down . . .”
Paul said: “You have got to catch the noon train. Go to the Hotel Kramer in Leipzig. The proprietor is an old friend of mine. Tell him that he is to look after you until I come. I’ll be there—you mustn’t worry.” He kissed her. “Now go—while Meister and I keep them occupied!”
She went down the creaking stairs as though going to her execution.
Paul hurried back along the landing and down the staircase which finished by the sitting-room door. He was in time to hear Meister saying smoothly:
“Is she a patient of yours, Doctor?”
“I am responsible for her,” came Namaroff’s curt reply.
“An amnesia victim must be a great responsibility.”
There was a pause. Then Namaroff said warily: “What did you say?”
“One never really knows what they’re capable of, does one? They might even commit murder during one of their lapses. And no one would be any the wiser.”
Paul wanted to feel grateful to Meister for stalling like this and giving Carla time to get away, but his gratitude was submerged below a wave of anger against the ideas that the Professor was planting in the minds of these ruffians—insidious, grotesque ideas about Carla.
Namaroff said: “Where is Carla?”
Paul reached the bottom step and walked into the sitting room. “She’s not here.”
Namaroff swung round. “You’re lying.”
Kanof had two policemen behind him. He said: “Search the house.” Without doing more than wave a slip of paper at Paul, he led the way upstairs.
Namaroff nodded his satisfaction, but was less satisfied when he realized that he had been left alone with Paul and Professor Meister. He eyed them uncertainly.
Heavy footsteps thumped overhead. They went in and out of each room, along the landing, back again . . .
Namaroff cleared his throat noisily and said: “Mr. Heitz, if this girl is not found I shall charge you with her abduction.”
“On what grounds?” snapped Meister.
“I shall be able to produce the evidence. There will be witnesses.”
“Speaking of evidence,” said Meister, “perhaps you’ll be good enough to return this to your Mr. Ratoff with my compliments.” He held out the knife which he had taken from the tree. “He left it behind when he attempted to kill Mr. Heitz in the forest.”
“What kind of tale is this?”
“No tale, Doctor. You sent Ratoff to follow Carla to the Castle Borski where she met Paul. When she left, Ratoff attempted to kill Paul with his knife.” With a sudden, startling violence Professor Meister grabbed Namaroff by his lapel. “Why do you want Paul Heitz out of the way, Namaroff? Is it because you’re afraid he’ll take Carla away from you? Or is it because you think he’ll find out about the secret that you share with Ratoff? Answer me.”
“Take your hands off me.”
Inspector Kanof was halfway down the stairs. There was a gun in his hand. He said: “Professor Meister—if you don’t release the Doctor this instant, I won’t hesitate to shoot.”
Meister let his hands fall. Namaroff stepped back and brushed his lapel fussily as though he had been contaminated.
“Well?” he asked Kanof.
“She’s not in the house.”
“Have you looked in every room?”
“Everywhere.”
“The attic?” insisted Namaroff. “Have you searched the attic?”
A policeman coming downstairs said gruffly; “She’s not there.”
Namaroff glared from Meister to Kanof, as though blaming them equally. Then he turned brusquely away and went out. Kanof looked as though there was something he intended to say to Meister; then he changed his mind and gestured to his policemen that they should follow the Doctor.
When they had gone, Meister let out a long sigh and said: “Where is she, Paul? What did you do with her?”
Paul explained briefly what his plan was and how he had put it into action. Meister nodded dubiously. He seemed unimpressed. When Paul had finished, the Professor took a small notebook from his pocket and flipped over the pages.
“There’s only one other train today that will get you to Leipzig,” he said. “I took the precaution of noting the times when I arrived in this district. It is a late night train.”
“I’ll go on that, then.”
“You should have gone with her in the first place,” said Meister.
“But they’d have been after us at once. As it is, they’re baffled. I’ll pack at once, and—”
“She won’t reach Leipzig,” said Meister dourly. “She won’t even be on the train.”
“Are you still persisting in this preposterous theory?”
“Of course, if the police find her before she reaches the station, then I shall have proved nothing. If, however, she does reach the station and you are right, she will be in Leipzig at five o’clock. Before you do anything further, Paul, I suggest you telephone the Hotel Kramer at about half past five.”
“Yes,” said Paul stiffly. “I’ll do that. And then you’ll have to admit that you’ve been talking rubbish. I hope you’ll apologize.”
“I hope I shall be in the position of having to.”
The afternoon dragged interminably. Paul and Meister walked into the village to make the telephone call, and were greeted by the usual resentful stares. One of Kanof’s men stood on the steps of police headquarters and unblinkingly watched their progress along the street.
It took several minutes to get the call through to Leipzig. The line was a poor one, but the hotel manager’s voice was clear enough for there to be no possibility of mistake: Carla Hoffmann had not arrived. Yes, he was sure that the train had been on time. No, there was no reason why she should not have reached the Hotel Kramer in ten minutes from the station.
As Paul went sombrely back along the street, he said with dogged determination: “They must have caught her before she got to the station.”
“I doubt it,” said Meister. “If they’d done that, we’d know about it. Kanof himself would take pleasure in coming out of his office and telling us.”
“They may be questioning her—they’ve taken her back to Namaroff . . .”
“I hope for your sake, Paul, that I’m wrong,” said Meister. “But we’re looking for the truth.”
“The fact that she hasn’t arrived proves nothing.”
“Nothing at all,” Meister agreed. “But do we discard my theory simply because it upsets your scheme of things—or do we go on looking for the truth?”
Paul could not reply. They finished the journey back to the millhouse in silence. Twilight was already hazing the trees and the hillside. Paul thought with a sudden nostalgia of his brother Bruno, who had loved the late summer and early autumn here. A cold shadow had fallen on Bruno, just as the cold shadow of winter was reaching out now over the valley, squeezing the days shorter between its fingers.
At the door of the millhouse he looked back. The dark swathes of trees across the hillside were sullen and threatening.
Carla must be somewhere up there, hiding or running like a frightened animal. Namaroff had set the police on her as he would have set tracker dogs on to a wild creature which he wanted trapped—trapped for his own purposes.
Paul made a move to go back down the path. Meister caught his arm.
“She’s out there somewhere,” said Paul. “I’m going to look for her.”
“No. Wait. In an hour’s time it will be dark. Wait until the morning.” As Paul fought against the Professor’s steel
y grip, Meister implored him: “Paul, you mustn’t look for Carla tonight. Not tonight.”
“Get out of my way.”
Paul tugged himself free. Meister made another grab at him, then swung a hard right at his jaw. Paul staggered sideways. Dazed, he tried to steady himself and make for the gate; but Meister seized him and propelled him into the house. The door slammed behind them. Meister said:
“I’m sorry, Paul, but I can’t let you destroy yourself.”
13
It was as humiliating as being a small boy again, locked in his bedroom as a punishment for some petty offence. Paul made no attempt to sleep. He sat on the edge of the bed and watched darkness settle on the landscape. Unless Namaroff had already captured her, Carla must still be out there.
The moon swam slowly out from behind a cloud. On the hilltops thunder rumbled.
Paul went to the door and shook it once more. He shouted Meister’s name, but there was no response. The Professor had ceased to answer an hour ago: he had no intention of letting Paul out, and Paul had no intention of listening to his well-meant lectures through the intervening door.
A flash of lightning tore the sky, and the thunder redoubled its clamor.
Carla must surely have been captured by now. She might even have given herself up rather than spend a night in the forests. Dragged back to Namaroff by force or by his sinister power over her, she could even now be sitting, defeated, in the Institution.
The thought was too much. It goaded Paul into action. He went to the window and raised the sash. It squeaked abominably, but the noise was drowned by the rising wind.
It was a long way down to the ground, but the tangle of ivy would provide a reasonable hold. He waited for the moon to come fully out, and made sure that there were no clouds likely to obscure it too abruptly. Then he put his leg over the windowsill and climbed out into the night.
Ivy tore away from the wall when he was halfway down and he had to make a jump, landing awkwardly but without breaking anything. He walked cautiously round the side of the house.
A light burned in the living-room window. He peered in, and saw Meister slumped in an armchair at the foot of the stairs. The warmth of the room had sent the Professor off to sleep.
Paul was just about to move round to the path and make his way into the woods when he heard a muffled thumping. Meister started from his chair. The sound, dulled by the space between and by the fitful wind, must be that of someone at the door.
Paul stayed where he was, waiting.
A moment later Meister backed into the room, with Kanof and two policemen plodding grimly after him. Kanof’s voice was faint but distinct through the window.
“I have a warrant for the arrest of Paul Heitz.”
“On what charge?”
“The abduction of Carla Hoffmann.”
“That’s ridiculous. You saw for yourself that she wasn’t in the house.”
“Will you please inform Mr. Heitz,” said Kanof. “I’ll give him five minutes to get dressed.”
Professor Meister spread his arms in a gesture of despair. He realized that argument was futile. He went to the stairs and began to climb slowly.
Paul hugged the wall and made his way round to the path. A police carriage stood in the lane, the driver hunched on his seat, peering apprehensively up into the lowering forest. Paul crept round the back of the carriage and plunged into the sheltering gloom.
The moon lit his way. An occasional stab of lightning threw the trees into vivid relief, giving them a two-dimensional sharpness that added to the unreality of the night.
He had meant to go first to the Institution, but now he was sure that Carla would not be there. They would not have sent Kanof to arrest him on a charge of abduction if Carla had already been captured. She must still be loose—still running or hiding, still cowering in terror.
On such a night, with the advancing storm about to break on the hills, there was one place in which she was almost bound to seek refuge. The Castle Borski held no terrors for her. She did not share the village superstitions. She and Paul had met there once; now, he thought resolutely, they would meet again. And this time he wouldn’t let her out of his sight until they were free and far from Vandorf.
He half ran through the trees, scrambled up the precipitous path, and felt the stones skidding under his feet as he crossed the courtyard and entered the great hall.
Moonlight was an encroaching tide, lapping in from gaping windows and through tall, narrow embrasures. A cloud scudded across the moon, and there was a swimming, ebbing flux of light and shadow across the vast floor. The face of a statue shone brightly for a moment and then receded into dusky contemplation. Paul lurched into something that leaned away from him and then bumped back against his arm. It was a tall metal candelabrum, thick with rust.
He looked up at the balcony. In the uncertain light it was impossible to make out more than the blurred outlines of the statues at the head of the stairs.
“Carla!”
The wind carried his voice away.
“Carla!”
Lightning flickered into the hall, and a dark, motionless shape beside one of the statues said: “I am waiting for Carla, Mr. Heitz.”
Paul reached out and his hand closed instinctively on the standard of the candelabrum. He waited for another flash. When it came, he saw Namaroff with an old, heavy-bladed sword in his hand.
Paul began to walk slowly towards him, lifting the candelabrum as though it were a three-pronged spear. Namaroff backed away.
Paul tried to speak, but a cataclysmic roar of thunder drowned him out. It struck Namaroff as a physical blow. He raised the massive sword, and stood his ground. Paul ducked away from the gleam of the murderous blade, and swung at Namaroff with the candelabrum.
They began a grotesque, lumbering duel in the bewildering light. The weight of the candelabrum was enough to throw Paul off balance. When it clashed against the sword, there was a shower of sparks. He began to use it madly like a flail, driving Namaroff backwards by sheer brute force. There was no pause for argument, no appeal for quarter: reason had deserted them once they entered the Castle Borski, and now in this ghostly ruin they battled like madmen. Elemental savagery boiled within them. The unmoving statues looked down placidly on the murderous hatred of two shifting, staggering, demented men.
Then a statue moved.
Paul caught the movement from the corner of his eye. Reeling to one side as Namaroff parried a blow, he knew that something or someone had advanced to the edge of the balcony.
He tried to look up, tried to call out, but Carla’s name died on his lips as Namaroff came at him again.
The crash and clang of their weapons was caught up in the swirl of wind and thunder. More important than anything in the world became the need to kill Namaroff. It was Namaroff who had dominated Carla for so long, Namaroff who had imprisoned her, terrified her, driven her out by his sinister influence, and then pursued her and hounded her through the forests. Until Namaroff was dead there would be no peace.
Paul took a mighty swing. Namaroff’s sword was torn from his hand and thrown shrieking, grating across the floor. Namaroff went down, grovelling, trying to push himself up again.
Paul turned the candelabrum in his hands and jabbed downwards. In a moment Namaroff would be impaled.
The Doctor wriggled desperately to one side. He groped for anything that came to hand, writhed like a serpent across the floor, and reached the sword. By the time he was on his feet Paul was lunging again, panting to draw blood, to see Namaroff in his final agony. They fought across the hall to the foot of the stairs. Namaroff jumped back up two stairs, giving himself the advantage of additional height. But the length of the candelabrum was still the main factor. Paul began to jab him up the stairs. At the top there would be room to swing the candelabrum again. He would finish it; must finish it.
Then Paul slipped. He was down on one knee when Namaroff laughed hysterically and struck back. The sword and the candelabrum locked t
ogether. Other shapes seemed to be joining in the struggle, mocking the thrusts and twists of the two men. Forced to one side, Paul found himself staring at his own face: a huge cracked, flyblown mirror was fastened to the wall beside the staircase.
The candelabrum was wrenched from his grasp. He felt the agonizing thud of Namaroff’s foot against the side of his head, and then he was turned over and over, kicked down the stairs. He spread his arms, tried to hold on, slithered and bumped down a dozen steps, and came to rest. He could not regain his breath, could not lift his head. He waited for Namaroff to leap down and deliver the finishing stroke.
Then he heard the moan that rose to an inhuman, shuddering cry. He grabbed for the rail and tried to haul himself up, seeing everything at a crazy, tilted angle.
Namaroff had the sword raised as though to defend himself. Or to shield his eyes . . .
There was a statue where no statue should be. There was a shape that loomed over Namaroff with its arms raised. It was still, yet not still. In the shadows the head was indeterminate, changing shape, alive with a dark life that was best concealed in those shadows.
Exhausted, Paul let his head slump down against the cold marble of the step.
He heard Namaroff scream. There was the clatter as he dropped the sword, and then he was stumbling down the stairs. His foot jarred against Paul’s arm. He went helplessly on his way, sobbing what could have been a prayer or a curse. Paul rolled over and looked down. He saw Namaroff stagger against a pillar at the foot of the stairs and then grab for support at a dusty, ragged curtain. It tore, and he sank to his knees and then on to his face.
Paul forced himself up. He groped for the rail and eased his way down the stairs. On the bend of the flight he looked straight into the mirror. And swimming out of it, just as it had once swum up through the weed and shadows of the pool, came the face he dreaded.
“No,” said Paul to himself. “No.” He swung away from the grinning monstrosity in the glass, and then kept his head down. He reached the bottom of the staircase and refused to look up. The temptation was almost overpowering. He had to see—had to confirm that it was true—had to defy this impossibility from a mythical past. But he made himself look at the floor as he edged away across the hall.
