The fat little man merely made himself comfortable in one of the chairs before the fire, reached for Maitland's open cigar case, helped himself to a stogie, and lit it. The large round package bobbed up and down on his lap as his rotund stomach heaved convulsively.
Maitland stared at the package. Marco stared at Maitland. Maitland broke first.
"Well?" he asked.
The greasy smile expanded. Marco inhaled rapidly, then opened his mouth to emit a puff of smoke and a reply.
"I am sorry to come unannounced, Mr. Maitland. I hope I'm not intruding?"
"Never mind that," Maitland snapped. "What's in the package, Marco?" Marco's smile expanded. "Something choice," he whispered. "Something tasty."
Maitland bent over the chair, his head outthrust to throw a vulpine shadow on the wall.
"What's in the package?" he repeated.
"You're my favorite client, Mr. Maitland. You know I never come to you unless I have something really rare. Well, I have that, sir. I have that. You'd be surprised what this butcher's paper hides, although it's rather appropriate. Yes, appropriate it is!"
"Stop that infernal gabbling, man! What is in the package?"
Marco lifted the bundle from his lap. He turned it over gingerly, yet deliberately.
"Doesn't seem to be much," he purred. "Round. Heavy enough. Might be a medicine ball, eh? Or a beehive. I say, it could even be a head of cabbage. Yes, one might mistake it for a head of common cabbage. But it isn't. Oh no, it isn't. Intriguing problem, eh?"
If it was the little man's intention to goad Maitland into a fit of apoplexy, he almost succeeded.
"Open it up, damn you!" he shouted.
Marco shrugged, smiled, and scrabbled at the taped edges of the paper. Christopher Maitland was no longer the perfect gentleman, the perfect host. He was a collector, stripped of all pretenses — quivering eagerness incarnate. He hovered over Marco's shoulder as the butcher's paper came away in the fat man's pudgy fingers.
"Now!" Maitland breathed.
The paper fell to the floor. Resting in Marco's lap was a large, glittering silver ball of—tinfoil.
Marco began to strip the tinfoil away, unraveling it in silvery strands. Maitland gasped as he saw what emerged from the wrappings.
It was a human skull.
Maitland saw the horrid hemisphere gleaming ivory-white in the firelight — then, as Marco shifted it, he saw the empty eye sockets and the gaping nasal aperture that would never know human breath. Maitland noted the even structure of the teeth, adherent to a well-formed jaw. Despite his instinctive repulsion, he was surprisingly observant.
It appeared to him that the skull was unusually small and delicate, remarkably well preserved despite a yellow tinge hinting of age. But Christopher Maitland was most impressed by one undeniable peculiarity. The skull was
different
, indeed.
This skull did not grin!
Through some peculiar formation or malformation of cheekbone in juxtaposition of jaws, the death's-head did not simulate a smile. The classic mockery of mirth attributed to all skulls was absent here.
The skull had a sober, serious look about it.
Maitland blinked and uttered a self-conscious cough. What was he doing, entertaining these idiotic fancies about a skull? It was ordinary enough. What was old Marco's game in bringing him such a silly object with so much solemn preamble?
Yes, what
was
Marco's game?
The little fat man held the skull up before the firelight, turning it from time to time with an impressive display of pride. His smirk of self-satisfaction contrasted oddly with the sobriety set indelibly upon the skulls bony visage.
Maitland's puzzlement found expression at last. "What are you so smug about?" he demanded. "You bring me the skull of a woman or an adolescent youth — "
Marco's chuckle cut across his remark. "Exactly what the phrenologists said!" he wheezed.
"Damn the phrenologists, man! Tell me about this skull, if there's anything to tell."
Marco ignored him. He turned the skull over in his fat hands, with a gloating expression which repelled Maitland.
"It may be small, but it's a beauty, isn't it?" the little man mused. "So delicately formed, and look — there's almost the illusion of a patina upon the surface."
"I'm not a paleontologist," Maitland snapped. "Nor a graverobber, either. You'd think we were Burke and Hare! Be reasonable, Marco — why should I want an ordinary skull?"
"Please, Mr. Maitland! What do you take me for? Do you think I would presume to insult your intelligence by bringing you an ordinary skull? Do you imagine I would ask a thousand pounds for the skull of a nobody?"
Maitland stepped back.
"A thousand pounds?" he shouted. "A thousand pounds for
that
?"
"And cheap at the price," Marco assured him. "You'll pay it gladly when you know the story."
"I wouldn't pay such a price for the skull of Napoleon," Maitland assured him. "Or Shakespeare, for that matter."
"You'll find that the owner of this skull tickles your fancy a bit more," Marco assured him.
"Enough of this. Let's have it, man!"
Marco faced him, one pudgy forefinger tapping the osseous brow of the death's-head.
"You see before you," he murmured, "the skull of Donatien Alphonse Francois, the Marquis de Sade."
2
Giles de Retz was a monster. Torquemada's inquisitors exercised the diabolic ingenuity of the fiends they professed to exorcise. But it remained for the Marquis de Sade to epitomize the living lust for pain. His name symbolizes cruelty incarnate — the savagery men call "sadism."
Maitland knew de Sade's weird history, and mentally reviewed it.
The Count, or Marquis, de Sade was born in 1740, of distinguished Provengal lineage. He was a handsome youth when he joined his cavalry regiment in the Seven Years' War—a pale, delicate, blue-eyed man, whose foppish diffidence cloaked an evil perversity.
At the age of twenty-three he was imprisoned for a year as the result of a barbaric crime. Indeed, twenty-seven years of his subsequent life he spent in incarceration for his deeds — deeds which even today are only hinted at. His flagellations, his administration of
outre
drugs and his tortures of women have served to make his name infamous.
But de Sade was no common libertine with a primitive urge toward the infliction of suffering. He was, rather, the "philosopher of pain" — a keen scholar, a man of exquisite taste and breeding. He was wonderfully well-read, a disciplined thinker, a remarkable psychologist — and a sadist.
How the mighty Marquis would have squirmed had he envisioned the petty perversions which today bear his name! The tormenting of animals by ignorant peasants, the beating of children by hysteric attendants in institutions, the infliction of senseless cruelties by maniacs upon others or by others upon maniacs — all these matters are classified as "sadistic" today. And yet none of them are manifestations of de Sade's unnatural philosophy.
De Sade's concept of cruelty had in it nothing of concealment or deceit. He practiced his beliefs openly and wrote explicitly of such matters during his years in prison. For he was the Apostle of Pain, and his gospel was made known to all men in JUSTINE, JULIETTE, ALINE ET VALCOUR, the curious LA PHILOSOPHIE DANS LE BOUDOIR and the utterly abominable LES 120 JOURNEES.
And de Sade practiced what he preached. He was a lover of many women
— a jealous lover, willing to share the embraces of his mistresses with but one rival. That rival was Death, and it is said that all women who knew de Sade's caresses came to prefer those of his rival, in the end.
Perhaps the tortures of the French Revolution were indirectly inspired by the philosophy of the Marquis — a philosophy that gained circulation throughout France following the publication of his notorious tomes.
When the guillotine arose in the public squares of the cities, de Sade emerged from his long series of imprisonments and walked abroad among men maddened at the sight of blood and suffering.
He was a gray, gentle little ghost — short, bald, mild-mannered and soft-spoken. He raised his voice only to save his aristocratic relatives from the knife. His public life was exemplary during these latter years.
But men still whispered of his private life. His interest in sorcery was rumored. It is said that to de Sade the shedding of blood was a sacrifice. And sacrifices made to certain beings bring black boons. The screams of pain-maddened women are as prayer to the creatures of the Pit. . . .
The Marquis was cunning. Years of confinement for his "offenses against society" had made him wary. He moved quite cautiously and took full advantage of the troubled times to conduct quiet and unostentatious burial services whenever he terminated an amour.
Caution did not suffice, in the end. An ill-chosen diatribe directed against Napoleon served as an excuse for the authorities. There were no civil charges; no farcical trial was perpetrated.
De Sade was simply shut up in Charenton as a common lunatic. The men who knew his crimes were too shocked to publicize them — and yet there was a satanic grandeur about the Marquis which somehow precluded destroying him outright. One does not think of assassinating Satan. But Satan chained —
Satan, chained, languished. A sick, half-blind old man who tore the petals from roses in a last gesture of demoniac destructiveness, the Marquis spent his declining days forgotten by all men. They preferred to forget, preferred to think him mad.
In 1814, he died. His books were banned, his memory desecrated, his deeds denied. But his name lived on — lives on as an eternal symbol of innate evil. . . .
Such was de Sade, as Christopher Maitland knew him. And as a collector of
curiosa
, the thought of possessing the veritable skull of the fabulous Marquis intrigued him.
He glanced up from revery, glanced at the unsmiling skull and the grinning Marco.
"A thousand pounds, you said?"
"Exactly," Marco nodded. "A most reasonable price, under the circumstances."
"Under what circumstances?" Maitland objected. "You bring me a skull. But what proofs can you furnish me as to its authenticity? How did you come by this rather unusual
memento mori
?"
"Come, come, Mr. Maitland — please! You know me better than to question my source of supply. That is what I choose to call a trade secret, eh?"
"Very well. But I can't just take your word, Marco. To the best of my recollection, de Sade was buried when he died at Charenton, in 1814."
Marco's oozing grin expanded.
"Well, I can set you right about
that
point," he conceded. "Do you happen to have a copy of Ellis's STUDIES about? In the section entitled
Love and Pain
there is an item which may interest you."
Maitland secured the volume, and Marco riffled through the pages.
"Here!" he exclaimed triumphantly. "According to Ellis, the skull of the Marquis de Sade was exhumed and examined by a phrenologist. Phrenology was a popular pseudoscience in those days, eh? Chap wanted to see if the cranial formation indicated the Marquis was truly insane.
"It says he found the skull to be small and well-formed, like a woman's. Exactly your remark, as you may recall!
"But the real point is this. The skull wasn't reinterred.
"It fell into the hands of a Dr. Londe, but around 1850 it was stolen by another physician, who took it to England. That is all Ellis knows of the matter. The rest I could tell — but it's better not to speak. Here is the skull of the Marquis de Sade, Mr. Maitland.
"Will you meet my offer?"
"A thousand pounds," Maitland sighed. "It's too much for a shoddy skull and a flimsy story."
"Well — let us say eight hundred, perhaps. A quick deal and no hard feelings?"
Maitland stared at Marco. Marco stared at Maitland. The skull stared at them both.
"Five hundred, then," Marco ventured. "Right now."
"You must be faking," Maitland said. "Otherwise you wouldn't be so anxious for a sale."
Marco's smile oozed off again. "On the contrary, sir. If I were trying to do you, I certainly wouldn't budge on my price. But I want to dispose of this skull quickly."
"Why?"
For the first time during the interview, fat little Marco hesitated. He twisted the skull between his hands and set it down on the table. It seemed to Maitland as if he avoided looking at it as he answered.
"I don't exactly know. It's just that I don't fancy owning such an item, really. Works on my imagination. Rot, isn't it?"
"Works on your imagination?"
"I get ideas that I'm being followed. Of course it's all nonsense, but — "
"You get ideas that you're followed by the police, no doubt," Maitland accused. "Because you stole the skull. Didn't you, Marco?"
Marco averted his gaze. "No," he mumbled. "It isn't that. But I don't like skulls — not my idea of ornaments, I assure you. Squeamish I am, a bit.
"Besides, you live in this big house here. You're safe. I live in Wapping now. Down on my luck at the moment and all that. I sell you the skull. You tuck it away here in your collection, look at it when you please — and the rest of the time it's out of sight, not bothering you. I'll be free of it knocking around in my humble diggings. Matter of fact, when I sell it, I'll vacate the premises and move to decent lodgings. That's why I want to be rid of it, really. For five hundred, cash in hand."
Maitland hesitated. "I must think it over," he declared. "Give me your address. Should I decide to purchase it, I'll be down tomorrow with the money. Fair enough?"
"Very well." Marco sighed. He produced a greasy stub of pencil and tore a bit of paper from the discarded wrappings on the floor.
"Here's the address," he said.
Maitland pocketed the slip as Marco commenced to enclose the skull in tinfoil once more. He worked quickly, as though eager to obscure the shining teeth and the yawning emptiness of the eye sockets. He twisted the butcher's paper over the tinfoil, grasped his overcoat in one hand, and balanced the round bundle in the other.