"I'll be expecting you tomorrow," he said. "And by the way — be careful when you open the door. I've a police dog now, a savage brute. He'll tear you to pieces — or anyone else who tries to take the skull of the Marquis de Sade."
3
It seemed to Maitland that they had bound him too tightly. He knew that the masked men were about to whip him, but he could not understand why they had fastened his wrists with chains of steel.
Only when they held the metal scourges over the fire did he comprehend the reason — only when they raised the white-hot rods high above their heads did he realize why he was held so securely.
For at the fiery kiss of the lash Maitland did not flinch — he convulsed. His body, seared by the hideous blow, described an arc. Bound by thongs, his hands would tear themselves free under the stimulus of the unbearable torment. But the steel chains held, and Maitland gritted his teeth as the two black-robed men flogged him with living fire.
The outlines of the dungeon blurred, and Maitland's pain blurred too. He sank down into a darkness broken only by the consciousness of rhythm , the rhythm of the savage, sizzling steel flails that descended upon his naked back.
When awareness returned, Maitland knew that the flogging was over. The silent, black-robed men in masks were bending over him, unfastening the shackles. They lifted him tenderly and led him gently across the dungeon floor to the great steel casket.
Casket? This was no casket. Caskets do not stand open and upended. Caskets do not bear upon their lids the raised, molded features of a woman's face.
Caskets are not spiked, inside. Recognition was simultaneous with horror.
This was the Iron Maiden!
The masked men were strong. They dragged him forward, thrust him into the depths of the great metal matrix of torment. They fastened wrists and ankles with clamps. Maitland knew what was coming.
They would close the lid upon him. Then, by turning a crank, they would move the lid down — move it down as spikes drove in at his body. For the interior of the Iron Maiden was studded with cruel barbs, sharpened and lengthened with the cunning of the damned.
The longest spikes would pierce him first as the lid descended. These spikes were set so as to enter his wrists and ankles. He would hang there, crucified, as the lid continued its inexorable descent. Shorter spikes would next enter his thighs, shoulders and arms. Then, as he struggled, impaled in agony, the lid would press closer until the smallest spikes came close enough to penetrate his eyes, his throat, and — mercifully — his heart and brain.
Maitland screamed, but the sound served only to shatter his eardrums as they closed the lid. The rusty metal grated, and then came the harsher grating of the machinery. They were turning the crank, bringing the banks of spikes closer to his cringing body. . . .
Maitland waited, tensed in the darkness, for the first sharp kiss of the Iron Maiden.
Then, and then only, he realized that he was not alone here in the blackness.
There were no spikes set in the lid! Instead, a figure was pressed against the opposite iron surface. As the lid descended, it merely brought the figure closer to Maitland's body.
The figure did not move, or even breathe. It rested against the lid, and as the lid came forward Maitland felt the pressure of cold and alien flesh against his own. The arms and legs met his in unresponsive embrace, but still the lid pressed down, squeezing the lifeless form closer and closer. It was dark, but now Maitland could see the face that loomed scarcely an inch from his eyes. The face was white, phosphorescent. The face was —
not a face!
And then, as the body gripped his body in blackness, as the head touched his head, as Maitland's lips pressed against the place where lips
should
be, he knew the ultimate horror.
The face that was
not
a face was the skull of the Marquis de Sade!
And the weight of charnel corruption stifled Maitland. and he went down into darkness again with the obscene memory pursuing him to oblivion.
Even oblivion has an end. and once more Maitland woke. The masked men had released and were reviving him. He lay on a pallet and glanced toward the open doors of the Iron Maiden. He was oddly grateful to see that the interior was empty. No figure rested against the inside of the lid. Perhaps there had been no figure.
The torture played strange tricks on a man's mind. But it was needed now. He could tell that the solicitude of the masked ones was not assumed. They had subjected him to this ordeal for strange reasons, and he had come through unscathed.
They anointed his back, lifted him to his feet, led him from the dungeon. In the great corridor beyond, Maitland saw a mirror. They guided him up to it.
Had the torture changed him? For a moment Maitland feared to gaze into the glass.
But they held him before the mirror, and Maitland stared at his reflection — stared at his quivering body, on which was set the grim, unsmiling death's-head of the Marquis de Sade!
4
Maitland told no one of his dream, but he lost no time in discussing Marco's visit and offer.
His confidant was an old friend and fellow collector. Sir Fitzhugh Kissroy. Seated in Sir Fitzhugh's comfortable study the following afternoon, he quickly unburdened himself of all pertinent details.
Genial, red-bearded Kissroy heard him out in silence.
"Naturally, I want that skull," Maitland concluded. "But I can't understand why Marco is so anxious to dispose of it at once. And I'm considerably worried about its authenticity. So I was wondering — you're quite an expert. Fitzhugh. Would you be willing to visit Marco with me and examine the skull?"
Sir Fitzhugh chuckled and shook his head.
"There's no need to examine it," he declared. "I'm quite sure the skull, as you describe it, is that of the Marquis de Sade. It's genuine enough."
Maitland gaped at him.
"How can you be so positive?" he asked.
Sir Fitzhugh beamed. "Because, my dear fellow — that skull was stolen from me!"
"What?"
"Quite so. About ten days ago, a prowler got into the library through the French windows facing the garden. None of the servants were aroused, and he made off with the skull in the night."
Maitland rose. "Incredible," he murmured. "But of course you'll come with me, now. We'll identify your property, confront old Marco with the facts, and recover the skull at once."
"Nothing of the sort," Sir Fitzhugh replied. "I'm just as glad the skull was stolen. And I advise you to leave it alone.
"I didn't report the theft to the police, and I have no intention of doing so. Because that skull is — unlucky."
"Unlucky?" Maitland peered at his host. "You, with your collection of cursed Egyptian mummies, tell me that? You've never taken any stock in such superstitious rubbish."
"Exactly. Therefore, when I tell you that I sincerely believe that skull is dangerous, you must have faith in my words."
Maitland pondered. He wondered if Sir Fitzhugh had experienced the same dreams that tormented his own sleep upon seeing the skull. Was there an associative aura about the relic? If so, it only added to the peculiar fascination exerted by the unsmiling skull of the Marquis de Sade.
"I don't understand you at all," he declared. "I should think you couldn't wait to lay hands on that skull."
"Perhaps I'm not the only one who can't wait," Sir Fitzhugh muttered.
"What are you getting at?"
"You know de Sade's history. You know the power of morbid fascination such evil geniuses exert upon the imagination of men. You feel that fascination yourself; that's why you want the skull.
"But you're a normal man, Maitland. You want to
buy
the skull and keep it in your collection of
curiosa
. An abnormal man might not think of buying. He might think of stealing it — or even killing the owner to possess it. Particularly if he wanted to do more than merely own it; if, for example, he wanted to
worship
it."
Sir Fitzhugh's voice sank to a whisper as he continued, "I'm not trying to frighten you, my friend. But I know the history of that skull. During the last hundred years it has passed through the hands of many men. Some of them were collectors, and sane. Others were perverted members of secret cults — worshippers of pain, devotees of Black Magic. Men have died to gain that grisly relic, and other men have been — sacrificed to it.
"It came to me quite by chance, six months ago. A man like your friend Marco offered it to me. Not for a thousand pounds, or five hundred. He gave it to me as a gift, because he was afraid of it.
"Of course I laughed at his notions, just as you are probably laughing at mine now. But during the six months that the skull has remained in my hands, I've suffered.
"I've had queer dreams. Just staring at the unnatural, unsmiling grimace is enough to provoke nightmares. Didn't you sense an emanation from the thing? They said de Sade wasn't mad — and I believe them. He was far worse — he was
possessed
. There's something
unhuman
about that skull. Something that attracts others, living men whose skulls hide a bestial quality that is also unhuman or inhuman.
"And I've had more than my dreams to deal with. Phone calls came, and mysterious letters. Some of the servants have reported lurkers on the grounds at dusk."
"Probably ordinary thieves, like Marco, after a valuable object," Maitiand commented.
"No," Sir Fitzhugh sighed. "Those unknown seekers did more than attempt to steal the skull.
They came into my house at night and adored it!
"Oh, I'm quite positive about the matter, I assure you! I keep the skull in a glass case in the library. Often, when I came to see it in the mornings, I found that it had been moved during the night.
"Yes, moved. Sometimes the case was smashed and the skull placed on the table. Once it was on the floor.
"Of course I checked up on the servants. Their alibis were perfect. It was the work of outsiders — outsiders who probably feared to possess the skull completely, yet needed access to it from time to time in order to practice some abominable and perverted rite.
"They came into my house, I tell you, and worshipped that filthy skull! And when it was stolen, I was glad — very glad.
"All I can say to you is, keep away from the whole business! Don't see this man Marco, and don't have anything to do with that accursed graveyard relic!"
Maitiand nodded. "Very well," he said. "I am grateful to you for your warning."
He left Sir Fitzhugh shortly thereafter.
Half an hour later, he was climbing the stairs to Marco's dingy attic room.
5
He climbed the stairs to Marco's room; climbed the creaking steps in the shabby Soho tenement and listened to the curiously muffled thumping of his own heartbeat.
But not for long. A sudden howl resounded from the landing above, and Maitland scrambled up the last few stairs in frantic haste.
The door of Marco's room was locked, but the sounds that issued from within stirred Maitland to desperate measures.
Sir Fitzhugh's warnings had prompted him to carry his service revolver on this errand; now he drew it and shattered the lock with a shot.
Maitland flung the door back against the wall as the howling reached the ultimate frenzied crescendo. He started into the room, then checked himself.
Something hurtled toward him from the floor beyond; something launched itself at his throat.
Maitland raised his revolver blindly and fired.
For a moment sound and vision blurred. When he recovered, he was half-kneeling on the floor before the threshold. A great shaggy form rested at his feet. Maitland recognized the carcass of a gigantic police dog.
Suddenly he remembered Marco's reference to the beast. So that explained it! The dog had howled and attacked. But — why?
Maitland rose and entered the sordid bedroom. Smoke still curled upward from the shots. He gazed again at the prone animal, noting the gleaming yellow fangs grimacing even in death. Then he stared around at the shoddy furniture, the disordered bureau, the rumpled bed —
The rumpled bed on which Mr. Marco lay, his throat torn in a red rosary of death
.
Maitland stared at the body of the little fat man and shuddered.
Then he saw the skull. It rested on the pillow near Marco's head, a grisly bedfellow that seemed to peer curiously at the corpse in ghastly camaraderie. Blood had spattered the hollow cheekbones, but even beneath this sanguinary stain Maitland could see the peculiar solemnity of the death's-head.
For the first time he fully sensed the aura of evil which clung to the skull of de Sade. It was palpable in this ravaged room, palpable as the presence of death itself. The skull seemed to glow with actual charnel phosphorescence.
Maitland knew now that his friend had spoken the truth. There
was
a dreadful magnetism inherent in this bony horror, a veritable Elixir of Death that worked and preyed upon the minds of men—and beasts.
It must have been that way. The dog, maddened by the urge to kill, had finally attacked Marco as he slept and destroyed him. Then it had sought to attack Maitland when he entered. And through it all the skull watched, watched and gloated just as de Sade would gloat had his pale blue eyes flickered in the shadowed sockets.
Somewhere within the cranium, perhaps, the shriveled remnants of his cruel brain were still attuned to terror. The magnetic force it focused had a compelling enchantment even in the face of what Maitland knew.
That is why Maitland, driven by a compulsion he could not wholly explain or seek to justify, stooped down and lifted the skull. He held it for a long moment in the classic pose of Hamlet.
Then he left the room, forever, carrying the death's-head in his arms.
Fear rode Maitland's shoulders as he hurried through the twilit streets. Fear whispered strangely in his ear, warning him to hurry, lest the body of Marco be discovered and the police pursue him. Fear prompted him to enter his own house by a side door and go directly to his rooms so that none would see the skull he concealed beneath his coat.