by Paul Halter
‘It’s possible,’ he shrugged. ‘Also, the fact that I select them carefully might have something to do with it. Nevertheless, there’s one which, in my humble opinion, stands out above the others.’
‘Which one? The Lord of Misrule? Or perhaps The Chamber of Horus?’
‘No. You don’t know anything about this particular hocus-pocus, because you were lazing on the Riviera at the time, in the company of a young person whom you were convinced was the love of your life. When you realised, on your return, that it was not to be, you were so crestfallen that I didn’t care to add further to your discomfort by relating this sinister story. What I can say is that it wasn’t just a simple case of a phantom murderer, such as we are used to handling.’
‘Simple phantom murderer?’ I exclaimed. ‘You intrigue me, my friend. Is there a more formidable adversary than that?’
‘Yes, assuredly.’
The crackling of the logs in the hearth was the only noise to be heard, as I reflected on his words. I sighed:
‘I’m afraid I don’t follow you.’
‘You see, Achilles, a ghost, no matter how vindictive, is basically only a manifestation of human origin. Now, the adversary in this case had nothing human about it. In fact, it has been the greatest predator of the human race since the dawn of our Helleno-Christian civilisation. Permit me to give you a hint: it has black pointed ears and long white teeth.’
‘A wolf?’
‘Yes, a wolf. But no ordinary wolf.’
‘I see: a werewolf!’
Turning towards me, Owen rolled his eyes in exasperation:
‘No. Worse than that. I’m talking about the most terrifying wolf in the world, the one which haunted the frozen land of Niflheim and terrorised even the indomitable Viking warriors: the Wolf of Fenrir!’
While I, disconcerted, saw visions of the monster of Nordic mythology flash before my eyes, Owen calmly lit a cigarette and went over to the window to contemplate the view of the city. He continued, in a soothing voice:
‘If you fancy it, I can describe the apparently inexplicable problem the way it was presented to me one frigid winter night—rather like this one, in fact. But come over here and look at our beautiful capital transformed into an ice palace, like that of the Snow Queen. That’ll put you in the mood….’
‘At the time, I also was on French soil—but not at the same latitude as you, I must point out. I was planning to pay a visit to a friend of mine who lived in the Ardennes, a region near the Belgian border famous for its rude winters. But on that particular evening, the roads were blocked by snow and I was obliged to stay at a hotel in a small town, where I was amazed to discover an old acquaintance nonchalantly ensconced at the bar. Perhaps you’ve heard me talk about Marcellus Blanchard before? No? He’s a rich eccentric, well-known in racing circles, who owns a remarkable string of thoroughbreds which he regularly enters at Longchamp and Epsom—which is where I first met him. It was a great pleasure to see that bon-vivant again: debonair, the right side of fifty, with carefully groomed greying hair and a perpetual gleam of amusement in his eye, as if he were unaffected by the travails of everyday life.
‘“It’s a sign from above, my dear Owen. Your friend can well wait two or three days. You’ll be my guest for the weekend, in my own personal hunting lodge not far from here. It’s a little off the beaten track, but it doesn’t lack for creature comforts.”
‘“That’s extremely kind of you, Marcellus, but I’ve just had a rather tiring journey and—.”
‘“That’s quite all right, you’ll have the whole night to recover. But tomorrow, before “teatime,” as you call it, I want to see you chez moi. I’ve also invited a few friends, who will be delighted to meet the greatest detective of His Majesty.” He grinned mischievously. “No, I’ve a better idea: you shall be our surprise guest. I’ll challenge my other guests to guess your profession. That’ll spice up the evening. And you know I like nothing better than to surprise people.”
‘“Yes, I’m aware you have that reputation.”
‘“Didn’t you once say that a friend who ceased to surprise you was no longer a friend?”
‘“You leave me no way out.”
‘His grin widened:
‘“No, since you put it that way. And, since I know you can resist everything but temptation, I may add that there’ll be a few fillies there as well.”
‘Nodding my head in agreement, I capitulated:
‘“Coming from an expert like you, I’ve no doubt they’ll have been well broken in.”
‘“So, can I count on you?’’
‘“Naturally—if there are pretty girls around, I’m your man!”’
‘The next day, in the late afternoon, the innkeeper drove me there in his cabriolet. After a bone-shaking quarter of an hour on a partly obliterated track—it had snowed heavily all morning—I spotted the reddish shape of the lodge on my left. My friend had not exaggerated about the isolation: there was not a living soul in sight. His country retreat stood in the heart of the countryside, on the edge of a forest of firs—dark sentinels standing out against the immaculate white of the snow. The residence was surrounded by an impressive yew hedge broken by a dome-shaped gap leading to the front entrance. The lodge itself was of half-timbered brick construction, its windows heavily embellished with ornamental carvings, in a baroque style totally in keeping with its owner’s image. It faced a vast clearing, in the middle of which—at some hundred yards from the house—stood a cabin, which the heavy silence of the surrounding snow made appear even more isolated than it actually was. A few white flakes twirled in the glacial air, contrasting with the grey of the sky. After tipping the innkeeper handsomely I picked up my bags, entered the yew dome, walked under a pergola colonised by a bare wisteria, and finally pressed the doorbell. Its sinister tone should have alerted me to the forthcoming danger but, at the time, I was more preoccupied with thoughts of meeting my host’s ravishing guests than paying attention to omens.
‘He had not exaggerated. I was soon comfortably ensconced in a rustic-style armchair, with a glass of Suze in hand, admiring the three members of the weaker sex amongst the guests my host had just introduced. The least striking, if I may so describe her—for she was by no means unattractive—was a diminutive woman with flaming red hair and the inquisitive eyes of a squirrel, who answered to the name of Hélène. She was the mother of two—who would have thought so, with such a slender waist?—and married to Philippe Houdeville, a tall, well-built, carefully groomed man in the prime of life; a stuffy accountant who seemed a little out of place in the group, but who Marcellus assured me would let his hair down after a couple of cognacs.
‘Philippe was conversing with Louis Prince, a legendary ex-jockey, the number one in France for many years, who had often ridden Marcellus’s horses to success. That profitable partnership had cemented a firm friendship between the two. I have to say he was not physically blessed, with the body of a young boy surmounted by a large head with drooping bushy eyebrows and a permanent look of disdain. What a contrast with his wife Frida, a dazzling blonde with a breathtaking figure, bursting with sensuality; a light-hearted creature who adored animals, particularly her three beagles—her “three darlings whom I miss so much”—which she nurtured like the children she’d never had. What would I not have given to change places with one of those lucky creatures! She must have been about thirty, in other words ten more than Barbara Rivière, a stunning beauty with a mane of chestnut hair, who was in the company of Ian Denison, a forty-year old salesman for an important Swedish steel company; with his blond hair and captivating smile, he was an inveterate philanderer who had never brought the same woman twice to Marcellus’s parties. I would willingly have changed places with Denison as well! Although Barbara had neither the class nor the maturity of Frida, she had the freshness and enthusiasm of youth, and an untamed expression in her emerald eyes which made her infinitely desirable. And the fact that she was planning a career as a painter was an added attraction to m
e. The last member of the group was Roger, Marcellus’s steward, a stocky, taciturn fellow with a thick black beard who doubled as cook, whose talents we were soon to discover.
‘After the meal, which took place in a jovial atmosphere, I began to get a better understanding of the married guests who exchanged digs of familiarity while Barbara and I, the newcomers, tried to follow suit. Putting her husband in the dock, Hélène declared:
‘“I often feel as if I’m living with a mathematical treatise. Philippe organises his life the way he organises his numbers.”
‘“So, you’re just a number to him,” teased Barbara.
‘“Yes, in a manner of speaking. That might not seem very flattering, but in Philippe’s eyes, it’s a proof of love, isn’t it, darling?”
‘“Of course, my dear number two.”
‘“What? Only number two!” exclaimed Hélène, pretending to be offended. “Then who’s number one?”
‘“I am, darling,” cooed Frida, placing a lascivious hand on the accountant’s shoulder, then throwing her head back in a rippling laugh.
‘Looking at her with a critical eye, Barbara observed:
‘“You have an interesting face, Freyja. I’d like to paint your portrait.”
‘“That’s Frida, dear. But I forgive the slip of the tongue. Wasn’t Freyja the goddess of love and beauty?”
‘With a supple motion which caused shimmerings of light on her tight-fitting greenish-yellow silk dress, she went over to the mantelpiece to look at her reflection in the mirror there. Striking a provocative pose, she asked me:
‘“What do you think, Mr. Burns? You’re an authority on the matter.”
‘“Which matter?” I babbled disconcertedly.
‘“The matter of Art,” she replied, with a mischievous smile. “I didn’t know you personally until today. I don’t often get to London, but I have a friend there who runs an art gallery. She told me about a critic who gave a glowing report on one of her exhibitions, who has exactly the same name as you.”
‘“Bravo, Frida!” exclaimed Marcellus happily. “You’ve lifted part of the veil. But my friend Owen Burns has another talent, which has earned him fame across the Channel into the bargain.”
‘I immediately became the centre of attention, but I maintained an impassive, Sphinx-like silence. Frida went on gaily, with a defiant look in her eye:
‘“We’ll find out, Mr. Burns. You won’t be able to pull the wool over our eyes the whole weekend. Men always give themselves away! And to answer your question, Barbara, I’ll be happy to sit for you, as long as you don’t ask me to pose nude in the snow.”
‘After an outburst of laughter and mock outrage, Frida continued, triumphant in her beauty and wit:
‘“But tell us, Barbara, how did you come to take up painting? Not many women have succeeded in that profession, and you’re very young, as well.”
‘Green lights flashed in the young woman’s eyes:
‘‘‘Oh, I’ve always excelled at portraits. What started me thinking seriously was the encouragement of a well-known painter, a friend of my father, who was moved to tears by one of my water-colours, the portrait of a particularly stupid woman….”
‘For a few seconds, the atmosphere in the lounge turned as frigid as the polar conditions outside. Marcellus hastened to change the subject. After refilling our glasses, he seized on the allusion to the goddess Freyja to steer the conversation towards Nordic mythology and its close ties to that of the Greeks, hoping to spark a lively debate about who influenced whom. For there was no doubt, he explained, that Thor, the god of thunder, was the counterpart of the great Zeus, just as the three Norns—the goddesses of fate—could be compared to the three Moirai. His strategy worked and two camps rapidly formed. Philippe Houdeville, the leader of the southern camp, argued that the gentle Mediterranean climate fostered the flowering of culture earlier than elsewhere and, likewise, the mythology. Ian Denison, the advocate of the opposite camp, held that the harsh northern climate produced hardy adventurers who had been the first to spread their culture abroad. His calm authority appeared to be winning the day, when Frida suddenly stood up and demanded silence:
‘“Did you hear that? That howling? He’s back. He senses my presence.”
‘“What on earth are you talking about?” I asked. “For my part, I heard nothing.”
‘“That’s hardly surprising,” whispered Marcellus in confidence, his cheeks flush from alcohol. “Our friend Frida is often the only one to hear it, and certainly the only one to go near it. It’s a wolf from hereabouts, or more likely a huge wild dog. Whatever it is, we named it the Wolf of Fenrir because it seems to be as ferocious as the legendary Nordic beast. And, since our friend loves doggies—.”
‘“Yes, Mr. Burns,” confirmed Frida, with a defiant look. “If do I say so myself, I’m the only one around here to have tamed him. He even comes to eat out of my hand.”
‘“Really? With a name like that, you should be more careful, all the same. As I recall, the ferocious monster bit off the hand of the god Tyr, even though he’d been chained up.”
‘With a giggle, she replied:
‘“Believe me, there’s nothing to be afraid of. This wolf is my friend. We see each other every time I come here.”
‘To my astonishment, Marcellus explained that Frida was in the habit, on each visit, of spending one night alone in the cabin I had seen on my way over, where the “Wolf of Fenrir” would visit her, warm and friendly, just like a pet dog—even though his mere presence terrified everyone else in the neighbourhood.
‘“I adore the contact, Mr. Burns,” explained Frida, her eyes sparkling.
‘“Between beauty and the beast?”
‘“If you like. I have an affinity with animals, which they can sense, even the most fearsome ones. And this night will be no exception.” Turning to Roger, she asked:
‘“Did you prepare the cabin?”
‘“Yes, madame,” confirmed the steward. “Everything’s ready. There’s dry wood in the fireplace and I prepared a breakfast basket.”
‘After a glance at the clock, Frida went over to the window and announced:
‘“Well, I shall be off. It’s still snowing, but it won’t last. Ladies and gentlemen, I wish you a pleasant evening.” Noticing a framed picture on one of the walls, she turned to the young painter:
‘‘What do you think of the watercolour, Barbara? I presume you identified the artist straight away? It cost Marcellus a small fortune, by the way.”
‘“Um, no, not really,” mumbled Barbara.
‘“It’s a Turner, immediately recognisable by its luminosity, due to the white of the paper. Any self-respecting student of Beaux Arts could have told you that….”
‘So much for setting the stage,’ concluded Owen. ‘I may, perhaps, have been a little verbose, Achilles, but I did want you to feel the strange atmosphere which prevailed amongst that little group, isolated in the middle of the snow and the fir trees in that glacial winter night. Now I shall be more succinct regarding the discovery of the tragedy—as precisely as I can, because I was not personally a witness. One final word about the conclusion of the evening: Hélène retired almost immediately after Frida left, followed a few minutes later by Barbara, still fuming from the affront Frida had inflicted. We men retired at about one o’clock in the morning in a state close to inebriation, not least myself, I’ll be the first to admit.
‘At about six in the morning, the ex-jockey Louis Prince who was, of course, alone in his room—all the guest rooms being on the upper floor—was awakened by a strange howling. It was followed by the sound of footsteps in the corridor; stepping out, he found Philippe Houdeville, just as surprised and anxious as he was.
‘“It must be the beast,” said the accountant. “Hélène heard it clearly, and she’s terrified. She woke me up. All I heard was a distant murmur, which I think came from somewhere near the cabin.”
‘“Frida, alone back there. My God,” stammered Prince. “Wh
at madness to tempt fate like that. Something must have happened. What do you think?”
‘“The same as you, Louis. We’d better get over there as soon as possible.”
‘Five minutes later, the two men left the lodge in the direction of the cabin, as the first rays of dawn appeared behind the tops of the fir trees. They trod across a stretch of perfectly virgin snow except for the faint footprints left by Frida during the previous evening. The moon, a thin crescent, shed its pale light on the two contrasting silhouettes. The ex-jockey, wrapped up in a fur-lined coat, led the way with quick steps, lantern in hand. He looked like a dwarf compared to his huge companion, who was wearing a voluminous black cloak. Their grim expressions indicated they were expecting the worst… and their fears were realised. As he approached the cabin, Philippe Houdeville heard his companion shout out. Then he, too, saw Frida’s lifeless body just in front of the open door of the cabin. She lay on her side, wearing a nightdress and woollen gown. One hand was on her breast; the other, extended in front of her, bore a terrible wound which had bled profusely onto the surrounding snow.
‘After a brief inspection, Louis stood up, his face ashen.
‘“There’s nothing we can do for her. And there are the tracks of the infernal beast which killed her.”
‘Stunned, Houdeville looked at the twin sets of tracks, clearly left by a large canine, disappearing into the distant forest. The beast had obviously come from there and returned the same way. But had it attacked Frida? Had it savaged her hand, just as its sinister cousin had savaged Tyr’s? For a few seconds, Houdeville thought he would faint, but he quickly recovered.
‘After assuring himself she was indeed dead, Philippe went inside the cabin, where embers were still glowing in the hearth. It consisted of a spacious single room, furnished with a table, two chairs, a bench, a sideboard and a bed in the far corner. Near the entrance stood a large grandfather clock; he opened the door and peered inside.
