Image of the Beast / Blown

by Philip José Farmer

  "How do you know they were wolves? Did you actually

  see them?"

  Childe admitted that he hadn't. Bruin said that even

  if there were laws against keeping wolves in that area,

  it would be the business of the Beverly Hills Police or

  perhaps the county police. He wasn't sure, because that

  area was doubtful; it was on the very edge of Beverly

  Hills, if he remembered right. He'd have to look it up.

  Childe did not insist on finding out. He knew that

  Bruin was too busy to be interested and even if he wasn't

  busy he probably thought Childe was on a false trail.

  Childe admitted to himself that this was most likely. But

  he had nothing else to do.

  The rest of the day he spent cleaning up his apart-

  ment, doing his washing in the building's basement ma-

  chines, planning what he would do that evening, specu-

  lating, and collecting some material, which he put into his

  trunk.

  He also watched the TV news. The air was as motion-

  less and as gray as lead. Despite this, most of the citizens

  seemed to think that conditions were returning to normal.

  Businesses were open again, and cars were filling the

  streets. The authorities, however, had warned those who

  had left the area not to return if they had some place

  to stay. The "unnatural" weather might continue in-

  definitely. There was no explanation for it which could

  be proved or even convincingly presented. But if normal

  atmospheric conditions did return, it would be best for

  those whose health was endangered by smog to stay

  away, or to plan on returning only long enough to settle

  their affairs before getting out.

  Childe went to the supermarket, which was operating

  at almost sixty percent normalcy, to stock up. The

  sky was graying swiftly, and the peculiar ghastly light had

  now spread over the sky from the horizon. It subdued

  the human beings under its dome; they spoke less fre-

  quently and more quietly and even the blaring of horns

  was reduced.

  The birds had not returned.

  Childe called Igescu twice. The first time, a recording

  said that all calls would be answered only after six. Childe

  wondered why the recorded call of the evening before

  had said he could phone in after three. Childe called

  again a few minutes after six. Magda Holyani's low voice

  answered.

  Yes, Mr. Igescu would see him at eight that evening.

  Sharp. And the interview would be over at nine. Mr.

  Wellston would have to sign a paper which would re-

  quire that any material to be published could be blue-

  lined by Mr. Igescu. He could not bring a camera. The

  chauffeur, Eric Glam, would meet Mr. Wellston at the

  gate and would drive him up. Mr. Wellston's car would

  have to be parked outside the wall.

  Childe had hung up and taken three steps from the

  phone when it rang. Bruin was calling. "Childe, the

  report from the lab has been in for some time but I

  didn't have a chance to see it until a coupla minutes

  ago."

  He paused. Childe said, "Well?"

  "It was clean, just like Colben's car. Except for one

  thing."

  Bruin paused again. Childe felt a chill run over his

  back and then up his neck and over his scalp. When he

  heard Bruin, he had the feeling of déjà vu, of having

  heard the words before under exactly identical circum-

  stances. But it was not so much déjà vu as expectation.

  "There were hairs on the front seat. Wolf hairs."

  "You've changed your mind about the possible worth-

  whileness of investigating Igescu?"

  Bruin grunted and said, "We can't. Not just now. But,

  yeah, I think you ought to. The wolf hairs were put on

  the seat on purpose, obviously, since everything else was

  so clean. Why? Who knows? I was looking for another

  film, this time about Budler, but we didn't get any in.

  So far."

  "It could be just a coincidence," Childe said. "But in

  case I don't report in to you by ten tonight, if it's

  OK for me to call your house then you better call on the

  baron."

  "Hell, I probably won't be off duty by ten and no

  telling where I'll be. I could have your call relayed, but

  the lieutenant wouldn't like that, we're pretty tied up with

  official calls and this wouldn't rate as that. No, call

  Sergeant Mustanoja, he'll be on duty, and he'll take a

  message for me. I'll contact him when I get time."

  "Then let's make it eleven," Childe said. "Maybe I'll

  get hung up out there."

  "Not by the balls, I hope," Bruin said, and, laughing,

  clicked the phone.

  Childe felt his testicles withdraw a little. He did not

  care much for Bruin's humor. Not while the film about

  Colben was still bright in his mind.

  He took three paces, and the phone rang again.

  Magda Holyani said that she was sorry, but it was

  necessary that the interview be put off until nine.

  Childe said that it would make little difference to him.

  Holyani said that that was nice and please make it nine

  sharp.

  Childe called Bruin back to report the change in

  plans. Bruin was gone, so he left a note with Sergeant

  Mustanoja.

  At 8:30 he drove out. From Beverly Boulevard, the

  hills appeared like ghosts too timorous or too weak as yet

  to clothe themselves with dense ectoplasm.

  By the time he had pulled up before the gateway to

  the Igescu estate, night had settled. A big car inside the

  gate was pouring out light from its beams up the private

  road away from the gate.

  A large form leaned against the gate. It turned, and

  the extraordinarily broad-shouldered and lean-waisted

  figure of a giant was silhouetted against the lights. It

  wore a chauffeur's cap.

  "I'm Mr. Wellston. I have an appointment at nine."

  "Yes, sir. May I see your I.D., sir?"

  The voice sounded as if it were being pounded out on

  a big drum.

  Childe produced several cards, a driver's license, and a

  letter, all counterfeit. The chauffeur looked them over

  with the aid of a pencil-thin flashlight, handed them

  back through the opening in the gate, and walked off to

  one side. He disappeared behind the wall. The gate

  noiselessly swung inward. Childe walked in, and the gate

  swung back. Glam strode up, opened the rear door for

  him, and then shut it after Childe was in the back seat.

  He got into the driver's seat, and Childe could see that

  his ears were huge and at right angles to his head,

  seemingly as big as bat's wings. This was an exaggera-

  tion, of course, but they were enormous.

  The drive was made in silence; the big Rolls-Royce

  swung back and forth effortlessly and without any notice-

  able motor noise. Its beams sprayed trees, firs, maples,

  oaks, and many thick bushes trimmed into various shapes.

  The light seemed to bring the vegetation into existence.

  After going
perhaps a half a mile as the crow flies, but two

  miles back and forth, the car stopped before another wall.

  This was of red brick, about nine feet high, and also had

  iron spikes with barbed wire between the spikes. Glam

  pressed something on the dashboard, and the gate's grille

  ironwork swung inward.

  Childe looked through the windows but could see only

  more road and woods. Then, as the car came around the

  first bend, he saw the beams reflected against four gleam-

  ing eyes. The beams turned away, the eyes disappeared,

  but not before he had seen two wolfish shapes slinking off

  into the brush.

  The car started up a steep hill and as it got near the

  top, its beams struck a Victorian cupola. The drive curved

  in front of the house and, as the beams swept across the

  building, Childe saw that it was, as the newspaper article

  had described it, rambling. The central part was obviously

  older and of adobe. The wings were of wood, painted

  gray, except for the red-trimmed windows, and they ex-

  tended part way down the side of the hill, so that the

  house seemed to be like a huge octopus squatting on a

  rock.

  This flashed across his mind, like a frame irrelevantly

  inserted in a reel, and then it became just a monstrous

  and incongruous building.

  The original building had a broad porch, and the

  added-on buildings had also been equipped with porches.

  Most of the porch was in shadows, but the central portion

  was faintly illuminated with light leaking through thin

  blinds. A shadow passed across a blind.

  The car stopped. Glam lunged out and opened the

  door for Childe. Childe stood for a minute, listening. The

  wolves had not howled once. He wondered what was to

  keep them from attacking the people in the house. Glam

  did not seem worried about them.

  "This way, sir," Glam said and led him up the porch

  and to the front door. He pressed a button, and a light over

  the door came on. The door was of massive highly

  polished hardwood—mahogany?—carved to represent a

  scene from (it seemed likely) Hieronymous Bosch. But

  a closer look convinced him that the artist had been

  Spanish. There was something indefinably Iberian about

  the beings (demons, monsters, humans) undergoing vari-

  ous tortures or fornicating in some rather peculiar fash-

  ions with some rather peculiar organs.

  Glam had left his chauffeur's cap on the front seat of

  the Rolls. He was dressed in a black flannel suit, and

  his trousers were stuffed into his boot-tops. He unlocked

  the door with a large key he produced from a pocket,

  swung the door open (it was well-oiled, no Inner-

  Sanctum squeaks), and bowed Childe on through. The

  room inside was a large (it could even be called great)

  hall. Two halls, rather, because one ran along the front

  of the house and halfway down it was a broad entrance

  to another hall which seemed to run the depth of the

  house. The carpets were thick and wine-colored with a

  very faint pattern in green. A few pieces of heavy, solid

  Spanish-looking furniture sat against the walls.

  Glam asked Childe to wait while he announced him.

  Childe watched the giant stoop to go through the doorway

  to the center hall. Then he jerked his head to the right

  because he had caught a glimpse of somebody down at

  the far end just going around the corner. He was startled,

  because he had seen no one at that end when he came in.

  Now he saw the back of a tall woman, the floor-length

  full black skirt, white flesh of the back revealed in the V

  of the cut, high-piled black hair, a tall black comb.

  He felt cold and, for a second, disoriented.

  He had no more time to think about the woman then,

  because his host came to greet him. Igescu was a tall

  slim man with thick, wavy, brown-blond hair, large,

  bright green eyes, pointed features, a large curving nose

  and a dimple in his right cheek. The moustache was

  gone. He seemed to be about sixty-five years old, a

  vigorous athletic sixty-five. He wore a dark-blue business

  suit. His tie was black with a faint bluish symbol in its

  center. Childe could not make it out; the outlines seemed

  to be fluid, to change shape as Igescu changed position.

  His voice was deep and pleasant, and he spoke with

  only a tinge of foreign pronunciation. He shook hands

  with Childe. His hands were large and strong-looking and

  his grip was powerful. His hand was cold but not ab-

  normally so. He was a very amiable and easygoing

  host but made it clear that he intended to allow his guest

  to remain only an hour. He asked Childe a few questions

  about his work and the magazine he represented. Childe

  gave him glib answers; he was prepared for more inter-

  rogation than he got.

  Glam had disappeared somewhere. Igescu immediately

  took Childe on a guided tour. This lasted about five

  minutes and was confined to a few rooms on the first

  floor. Childe could not get much idea of the layout of the

  house. They returned to a large room off the central hall

  where Igescu asked Childe to sit down. This was also

  fitted with Spanish-type furniture and a grand piano.

  There was a fireplace, above the mantel of which was a

  large oil painting. Childe, sipping on an excellent brandy,

  listened to his host but studied the portrait. The subject

  was a beautiful young woman dressed in Spanish costume

  and holding a large ivory-yellowish fan. She had unusually

  heavy eyebrows and extremely dark eyes, as if the

  painter had invented a paint able to concentrate black-

  ness. There was a faint smile about the lips—not Mona

  Lisa-ish, however—the smile seemed to indicate a deter-

  mination to—what? Studying the lips, Childe thought

  that there was something nasty about the smile, as if there

  were a deep hatred there and a desire to get revenge.

  Perhaps the brandy and his surroundings made him think

  that, or perhaps the artist was the nasty and hateful one

  and he had projected onto the innocent blankness of the

  subject his own feelings. Whatever the truth, the artist

  had talent. He had given the painting the authenticity

  of more than life.

  He interrupted Igescu to ask him about the painting.

  Igescu did not seem annoyed.

  "The artist's name was Krebens," he said. "If you get

  close to the painting, you'll see it in miniscule letters at

  the left-hand corner. I have a fairly good knowledge of

  art history and local history, but I have never seen an-

  other painting by him. The painting came with the house;

  it is said to be of Dolores del Osorojo. I am convinced

  that it is, since I have seen the subject."

  He smiled. Childe felt cold again. He said, "Just after

  I came in, I saw a woman going around the corner down

  the hall. She was dressed in old-fashioned Spanish clothes.

  Could that be … ?"

  Ig
escu said, "Only three women live in this house. My

  secretary, my great-grandmother, and a house guest.

  None of them wear the clothing you describe."

  "The ghost seems to have been seen by quite a few

  people," Childe said. "You don't seem to be upset, how-

  ever."

  Igescu shrugged and said, "Three of us, Holyani, Glam,

  and I, have seen Dolores many times, although always

  at a distance and fleetingly. She is no illusion or delu-

  sion. But she seems harmless, and I find it easier to put

  up with her than with many flesh and blood people."

  "I wish you had permitted me to bring a camera. This

  house is very colorful, and if I could have caught her on

  film ... or have you tried that and found out she doesn't

  photograph?"

  "She didn't when I first moved in," Igescu said. "But I

  did shoot her and the developed films show her quite

  clearly. The furniture behind her showed dimly, but

  she's much more opaque than she used to be. Given

  time, and enough people to feed off …"

  He waved his hand as if that would complete the sen-

  tence. Childe wondered if Igescu were putting him on.

  He said, "Could I see that photo?"

  "Certainly," Igescu said. "But it won't prove any-

  thing, of course. There is very little that can't be faked."

  He spoke into an intercom disguised as a cigar

  humidor in a language Childe did not recognize. It cer-

  tainly did not sound Latin, although, unacquainted with

  Rumanian, he had no way of identifying it. He doubted

  that Rumanian would have such back-of-the-throat

  sounds.

  He heard the click of billiard balls and turned to look

  down into the next room. Two youths were playing.

  They were both blond, of medium height, well built,

  and clothed in tight-fitting white sweaters, tight-fitting

  white jeans, and black sandals. They looked as if they

  could be brother and sister. Their eyebrows were high

  and arched and the eye sockets were deep. Their lips

  were peculiar. The upper lip was so thin it looked like

  the edge of a bloody knife; the lower lip was so swol-

  len that it looked as if it had been cut and infected by

  the upper.

  Igescu called to them. They raised their heads with

  such a lupine air that Childe could not help thinking of

  the wolves he had glimpsed on the way up. They nodded

  at Childe when Igescu introduced them as Vasili Chorn-