"All right. I am going to search for the fly now, but promise me you won't do anything foolish; promise you won't do anything rash or dangerous without first letting me know all about it!"
He extended his left hand, and I knew I had his promise.
I will never forget that ceaseless daylong hunt for a fly. Back home, I turned the house inside out and made all the servants join in the search. I told them that a fly had escaped from the Professor's laboratory and that it must be captured alive, but it was evident they already thought me crazy. They said so to the police later, and that day's hunt for a fly most probably saved me from the guillotine later.
I questioned Henri, and as he failed to understand right away what I was talking about, I shook him and slapped him and made him cry in front of the round-eyed maids. Realizing that I must not let myself go, I kissed and petted the poor boy and at last made him understand what I wanted of him. Yes, he remembered, he had found the fly just by the kitchen window; yes, he had released it immediately as told to.
Even in summertime we had very few flies because our house is on
the top of a hill and the slightest breeze coming across the valley blows round it. In spite of that, I managed to catch dozens of flies that day. On all the window sills and all over the garden I had put saucers of milk, sugar, jam, meat—all the things likely to attract flies. Of all those we caught, and many others which we failed to catch but which I saw, none resembled the one Henri had caught the day before. One by one, with a magnifying glass, I examined every unusual fly, but none had anything like a white head.
At lunch time, I ran down to Andre with some milk and mashed potatoes. I also took some of the flies we had caught, but he gave me to understand that they could be of no possible use to him.
"If that fly has not been found by tonight, Andre, we'll have to see what is to be done. And this is what I propose: I'll sit in the next room. When you can't answer by the yes-no method of rapping, you'll type out whatever you want to say and then slip it under the door. Agreed?"
"Yes," rapped Andre
By nightfall we had still not found the fly. At dinnertime, as I prepared Andrews tray, I broke down and sobbed in the kitchen in front of the silent servants. My maid thought that I had had a row with my husband, probably about the mislaid fly, but I learned later that the cook was already quite sure that I was out of my mind.
Without a word, I picked up the tray and then put it down again as I stopped by the telephone. That this was really a matter of life and death for Andre, I had no doubt. Neither did I doubt that he fully intended committing suicide, unless I could make him change his mind, or at least put off such a drastic decision. Would I be strong enough? He would never forgive me for not keeping a promise, but under the circumstances, did that really matter? To the devil with promises and honour! At all costs Andre must be saved! And having thus made up my mind, I looked up and dialled Professor Augier's number.
"The Professor is away and will not be back before the end of the week," said a polite neutral voice at the other end of the line.
That was that! I would have to fight alone and fight I would. I would save Andre* come what may.
All my nervousness had disappeared as Andr£ let me in and, after putting the tray of food down on his desk, I went into the other room, as agreed.
"The first thing I want to know," I said as he closed the door behind me, "is what happened exactly. Can you please tell me, Andr£?"
I waited patiently while he typed an answer which he pushed under the door a little later.
HELENE, I WOULD RATHER NOT TELL YOU. SINCE GO I MUST, I WOULD RATHER YOU REMEMBER ME AS I WAS BEFORE. I MUST DESTROY MYSELF IN SUCH A WAY THAT NONE CAN POSSD3LY KNOW WHAT HAS HAPPENED TO ME. I HAVE OF COURSE THOUGHT OF SIMPLY DISINTEGRATING MYSELF IN MY TRANSMITTER, BUT I HAD BETTER NOT BECAUSE, SOONER OR LATER, I MIGHT FIND MYSELF REINTEGRATED. SOME DAY, SOMEWHERE, SOME SCIENTIST IS SURE TO MAKE THE SAME DISCOVERY. I HAVE THEREFORE THOUGHT OF A WAY WHICH IS NEITHER SIMPLE NOR EASY, BUT YOU CAN AND WILL HELP ME.
For several minutes I wondered if Andre had not simply gone stark raving mad.
"Andre," I said at last, "whatever you may have chosen or thought of, I cannot and will never accept such a cowardly solution. No matter how awful the result of your experiment or accident, you are alive, you are a man, a brain . . . and you have a soul. You have no right to destroy yourself. You know that!"
The answer was soon typed and pushed under the door.
I AM ALIVE ALL RIGHT, BUT I AM ALREADY NO LONGER A MAN. AS TO MY BRAIN OR INTELLIGENCE, IT MAY DISAPPEAR AT ANY MOMENT. AS IT IS, IT IS NO LONGER INTACT. AND THERE CAN BE NO SOUL WITHOUT INTELLIGENCE . . . AND YOU KNOW THAT!
"Then you must tell the other scientists about your discovery. They will help you and save you, Andre!"
I staggered back frightened as he angrily thumped the door twice.
"Andre . . . why? Why do you refuse the aid you know they would give you with all their hearts?"
A dozen furious knocks shook the door and made me understand that my husband would never accept such a solution. I had to find other arguments.
For hours, it seemed, I talked to him about our boy, about me, about his family, about his duty to us and to the rest of humanity. He made no reply of any sort. At last I cried:
"Andre ... do you hear me?"
"Yes," he knocked very gently.
'Well, listen then. I have another idea. You remember your first experiment with the ashtray? . . . Well, do you think that if you had
put it through again a second time, it might possibly have come out with the letters turned back the right way?"
Before I had finished speaking, Andre was busily typing and a moment later I read his answer:
I HAVE ALREADY THOUGHT OF THAT, AND THAT IS WHY I NEEDED THE FLY. IT HAS GOT TO GO THROUGH WITH ME. THERE IS NO HOPE OTHERWISE.
"Try all the same, Andre You never know!"
1 have tried seven times already, was the typewritten reply I got to that.
"Andre! Try again, please!"
The answer this time gave me a flutter of hope, because no woman has ever understood, or will ever understand, how a man about to die can possibly consider anything funny.
I DEEPLY ADMIRE YOUR DELICIOUS FEMININE LOGIC. WE COULD GO ON DOING THIS EXPERIMENT UNTIL DOOMSDAY. HOWEVER, JUST TO GIVE YOU THAT PLEASURE, PROBARLY THE VERY LAST I SHALL EVER BE ABLE TO GIVE YOU, I WILL TRY ONCE MORE. IF YOU CANNOT FIND THE DARK GLASSES, TURN YOUR BACK TO THE MACHINE AND PRESS YOUR HANDS OVER YOUR EYES. LET ME KNOW WHEN YOU ARE READY.
"Ready, AndreT I shouted without even looking for the glasses and following his instructions.
I heard him moving around and then opening and closing the door of his "disintegrator". After what seemed a very long wait, but probably was not more than a minute or so, I heard a violent crackling noise and perceived a bright flash through my eyelids and fingers.
I turned around as the cabin door opened.
His head and shoulders still covered with the brown velvet carpet, Andre was gingerly stepping out of it.
"How do you feel, Andre? Any difference?" I asked, touching his arm.
He tried to step away from me and caught his foot in one of the stools which I had not troubled to pick up. He made a violent effort to regain his balance, and the velvet cloth slowly slid off his shoulders and head as he fell heavily backwards.
The horror was too much for me, too unexpected. As a matter of fact, I am sure that, even had I known, the horror impact could hardly have been less powerful. Trying to push both hands into my mouth to stifle
my screams and although my fingers were bleeding, I screamed again and again. I could not take my eyes off him, I could not even close them, and yet I knew that if I looked at the horror much longer, I would go on screaming for the rest of my life.
Slowly, the monster, the thing that had been my husband, covered its head, got up and groped its way to the door and passed it. Though still screaming, I was able to close
my eyes.
I who had ever been a true Catholic, who believed in God and another, better life hereafter, have today but one hope: that when I die, I really die, and that there may be no after-life of any sort because, if there is, then I shall never forget! Day and night, awake or asleep, I see it, and I know that I am condemned to see it forever, even perhaps into oblivion!
Until I am totally extinct, nothing can, nothing will ever make me forget that dreadful white hairy head with its low flat skull and its two pointed ears. Pink and moist, the nose was also that of a cat, a huge cat. But the eyes! Or rather, where the eyes should have been were two brown bumps the size of saucers. Instead of a mouth, animal or human, there was a long hairy vertical slit from which hung a black quivering trunk that widened at the end, trumpetlike, and from which saliva kept dripping.
I must have fainted, because I found myself flat on my stomach on the cold cement floor of the laboratory, staring at the closed door behind which I could hear the noise of Andre's typewriter.
Numb, numb and empty, I must have looked as people do immediately after a terrible accident, before they fully understand what has happened. I could only think of a man I had once seen on the platform of a railway station, quite conscious, and looking stupidly at his leg still on the line where the train had just passed.
My throat was aching terribly, and that made me wonder if my vocal cords had not perhaps been torn, and whether I would ever be able to speak again.
The noise of the typewriter suddenly stopped and I felt I was going to scream again as something touched the door and a sheet of paper slid from under it.
Shivering with fear and disgust, I crawled over to where I could read it without touching it:
NOW YOU UNDERSTAND. THAT LAST EXPERIMENT WAS A NEW DISASTER, MY POOR HELENE. I SUPPOSE YOU RECOGNIZED PART OF DANDELO's HEAD. WHEN I WENT INTO THE DISINTEGRATOR JUST NOW, MY HEAD WAS ONLY
THAT OF A FLY. I NOW ONLY HAVE ITS EYES AND MOUTH LEFT. THE REST HAS BEEN REPLACED BY PARTS OF THE CAT'S HEAD. POOR DANDELO WHOSE ATOMS HAD NEVER COME TOGETHER. YOU SEE NOW THAT THERE CAN ONLY BE ONE POSSIBLE SOLUTION, DON'T YOU? I MUST DISAPPEAR. KNOCK ON THE DOOR WHEN YOU ARE READY AND I SHALL EXPLAIN WHAT YOU HAVE TO DO.
Of course he was right, and it had been wrong and cruel of me to insist on a new experiment. And I knew that there was now no possible hope, that any further experiments could only bring about worse results.
Getting up dazed, I went to the door and tried to speak, but no sound came out of my throat. . . so I knocked once!
You can of course guess the rest. He explained his plan in short typewritten notes, and I agreed, I agreed to everything!
My head on fire, but shivering with cold, like an automaton, I followed him into the silent factory. In my hand was a full page of explanations: what I had to know about the steam hammer.
Without stopping or looking back, he pointed to the switchboard that controlled the steam hammer as he passed it. I went no farther and watched him come to a halt before the terrible instrument.
He knelt down, carefully wrapped the cloth round his head, and then stretched out flat on the ground.
It was not difficult. I was not killing my husband. Andre, poor Andre, had gone long ago, years ago it seemed. I was merely carrying out his last wish . . . and mine.
Without hesitating, my eyes on the long still body, I firmly pushed the "stroke" button right in. The great metallic mass seemed to drop slowly. It was not so much the resounding clang of the hammer that made me jump as the sharp cracking which I had distinctly heard at the same time. My hus . . . the thing's body shook a second and then lay still.
It was then I noticed that he had forgotten to put his right arm, his flyleg, under the hammer. The police would never understand but the scientists would, and they must not! That had been Andre's last wish, also!
I had to do it and quickly, too; the night watchman must have heard the hammer and would be round any moment. I pushed the other button and the hammer slowly rose. Seeing but trying not to look, I ran up, leaned down, lifted and moved forward the right arm which seemed
terribly light. Back at the switchboard, again I pushed the red button, and down came the hammer a second time. Then I ran all the way home.
You know the rest and can now do whatever you think right.
So ended Helene's manuscript.
The following day I telephoned Commissaire Charas to invite him to dinner.
'With pleasure Monsieur Delambre. Allow me, however, to ask: is it the commissaire you are inviting, or just Monsieur Charas?"
"Have you any preference?"
"No, not at the present moment."
"Well then, make it whichever you like. Will eight o'clock suit you?"
Although it was raining, the commissaire arrived on foot that evening.
"Since you did not come tearing up to the door in your black Citroen, I take it you have opted for Monsieur Charas, off duty?"
"I left the car up a side street," mumbled the commissaire with a grin as the maid staggered under the weight of his raincoat.
"Merci," he said a minute later as I handed him a glass of Pernod into which he tipped a few drops of water, watching it turn the golden amber liquid to pale blue milk.
"You heard about my poor sister-in-law?"
"Yes, shortly after you telephoned me this morning. I am sorry, but perhaps it was all for the best. Being already in charge of your brother's case, the inquiry automatically comes to me."
"I suppose it was suicide."
"Without a doubt. Cyanide the doctors say quite rightly; I found a second tablet in the unstitched hem of her dress."
"Monsieur est servi" announced the maid.
"I would like to show you a very curious document afterwards, Charas."
"Ah, yes. I heard that Madame Delambre had been writing a lot, but we could find nothing beyond the short note informing us that she was committing suicide."
During our tete-a-tete dinner, we talked politics, books and films, and the local football club of which the commissaire was a keen supporter.
After dinner, I took him up to my study where a bright fire—a habit I had picked up in England during the war—was burning.
Without even asking him, I handed him his brandy and mixed myself what he called "crushed-bug juice in soda water"—his appreciation of whisky.
"I would like you to read this, Charas; first because it was partly intended for you and, secondly, because it will interest you. If you think Commissaire Charas has no objection, I would like to burn it after."
Without a word, he took the wad of sheets Helene had given me the day before and settled down to read them.
"What do you think of it all?" I asked some 20 minutes later as he carefully folded Helene's manuscript, slipped it into the brown envelope, and put it into the fire.
Charas watched the flames licking the envelope from which wisps of grey smoke were escaping, and it was only when it burst into flames that he said, slowly raising his eyes to mine:
"I think it proves very definitely that Madame Delambre was quite insane."
For a long while we watched the fire eating up Helene's "confession".
"A funny thing happened to me this morning, Charas. I went to the cemetery, where my brother is buried. It was quite empty and I was alone."
"Not quite, Monsieur Delambre. I was there, but I did not want to disturb you."
"Then you saw me. . . ."
"Yes, I saw you bury a matchbox."
"Do you know what was in it?"
"A fly, I suppose."
"Yes, I had found it early this morning, caught in a spider's web in the garden."
"Was it dead?"
"No, not quite. I . . . crushed it . . . between two stones. Its head was . . . white ... all white."
BLACK SUNDAY
NIKOLAI GOGOL
(Galatea-]oily Films: i960)
Despite the fact that American—and to a certain extent English—film makers have dominated the horror
film genre since its very early years, there have been some truly outstanding productions from other countries—notably European—and in particular Trance and Italy. From a personal point of view I would say that the Italian La Mas-chera Del Demonio (The Mask of the Demon, released in America as Black Sunday) and La Riviere Du Hibou (Incident at Owl Creek) from France, are my candidates for the select company of the all-time best horror films from any source.
In order to preserve a chronological sequence we shall first deal with Black Sunday and then turn to the French production. Carlos Clarens calls the film a "relentless nightmare" containing "the best black and white photography to enhance a horror movie in the past tvuo decades' (the work of cameraman Ubaldo Terzanoi).
The story concerns a sensual vampire woman, burned at the stake during the seventeenth century, who returns two hundred years later to wreak her vengeance on the descendants of those who persecuted her. Set in Middle Europe, the picture owed its inspiration to a superb folk tale by the great Russian writer, Nikolai Gogol, entitled The Viy.
The vampire was played by Barbara Steele, a talented and very beautiful actress then as now almost completely unknown outside the horror film genre. Although the film was released with considerable success in America and Europe, a ban was placed on it in Britain until 1968 when it finally appeared under the title Revenge of the Vampire.
AS soon as the rather musical seminary bell which hung at the gate of the Bratsky Monastery rang out every morning in Kiev, schoolboys and
students hurried thither in crowds from all parts of the town. Students of grammar, rhetoric, philosophy and theology, trudged to their classrooms with exercise books under their arms. The grammarians were quite small boys: they shoved each other as they went along and quarrelled in a shrill alto; they almost all wore muddy or tattered clothes, and their pockets were full of all manner of rubbish, such as knucklebones, whistles made of feathers, or a half-eaten pie, sometimes even little sparrows, one of whom suddenly chirruping at an exceptionally quiet moment in the classroom would cost its owner some sound whacks on both hands and sometimes a thrashing. The rhetoricians walked with more dignity; their clothes were often quite free from holes; on the other hand, their countenances almost all bore some decoration, after the style of a figure of rhetoric; either one eye had sunk right under the forehead, or there was a monstrous swelling in place of a lip, or some other disfigurement. They talked and swore among themselves in tenor voices. The philosophers conversed an octave lower in the scale; they had nothing in their pockets but strong, cheap tobacco. They laid in no stores of any sort, but ate on the spot anything they came across; they smelt of pipes and vodka to such a distance that a passing workman would sometimes stop a long way off and sniff the air like a setter dog.
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