The Hammer Horror Omnibus (8 page)

Yet she turned and went towards the laboratory. Even while she hated Namaroff and the power he had over her, she could not deny that power. Somehow he made it impossible for her to leave Vandorf. Somehow he drew her to his side now, in the dark hours of the night.

Namaroff did not look up as she entered. He was bent over a table, a scalpel in his hand. Under the scalpel was the head of Martha, her dead mouth twisted as though it had frozen into the grimace made when she spat at Ratoff.

Namaroff lifted the brains from the opened skull and laid them in a dish. Then he said, still without looking round:

“You have been out tonight, Carla?”

“Yes.”

“Where did you go?”

“For a walk.”

“Were you alone?”

“Yes.”

Namaroff carried the dish to a bench along the wall. He began to lay out instruments ready to his hand.

Carla said: “What are you hoping to find?”

“Hoping?” He shrugged. “I am merely carrying out a routine examination. Looking for signs of deterioration. Or any special features which may explain the poor creature’s illness.”

She noted that, now that Martha was dead, he was prepared to describe her tolerantly as a poor creature.

“What kind of deterioration?” she asked. “Do you think there’ll be something . . . out of the ordinary?”

When Namaroff did not answer, she went on: “Do you remember when we found Paul Heitz?”

“I do.”

“It was the night Martha escaped. And the night you told me that the Gorgon had taken on human form.”

“So?”

“Was it . . . was it Martha?”

“No, Carla,” said Namaroff heavily, “it wasn’t Martha.”

“You suspect somebody?”

“It’s too early to say.”

He sighed, as though reproaching her for interrupting him; but she knew him well enough to be able to tell that he was deeply disturbed.

“We work closely together,” said Carla, hating to make such an appeal to him yet driven on by her need to know. “I think I should know—”

“What you should know”—he swung unexpectedly round to face her—“is that you are in great danger.”

“Danger?”

“Of your life.”

“But why should there be any—”

“You must believe me,” he said forcefully. “You must do as I say. Don’t go out—alone, or with anyone else. Tell me always what you are doing. Stay close to me, Carla. We will overcome this terrible thing. But you must trust me.”

“I have a right to know. If there’s danger, I should know what form it will take.”

“The form it will take?” he said grimly. “Better that I should not tell you. Not until I’m sure.”

10

M
eister said: “So you saw only her reflection?”

“It was enough,” said Paul.

They stood looking down on the innocent surface of the pool. With Professor Meister beside him, Paul could almost have felt that the whole thing had been a dream—if his memories had not been so vivid. Even now he could hardly bear to look into the water in case that monstrous face should take on substance and leer hideously up at him.

“Hm.” Meister made a slow circuit of the pool. “When Perseus beheaded Medusa, he guided his blow by looking at her reflection in the shield he carried. If your story is true, the girl Sascha must have looked directly at the Gorgon—and so did your father. What spared you is the fact that you saw only her reflection.”

“Then you believe me?”

“I’m not saying that the Gorgon exists. Unquestionably you saw something. Hallucination or not, it was real enough for you—and for your less fortunate predecessors.”

“She was not a hallucination.”

“No,” said Meister quickly, “of course not.”

“Professor, please don’t try to humor me. Is the idea of the Gorgon any stranger than the theory of reincarnation, which admits to a dead person’s spirit inhabiting a human body?”

“A theory,” came the dry retort, “which has yet to be proved.” Meister turned back towards the house. “Now, as to your own story. Let us start with the assumption that Medusa, whose head is spoken of in legend over many centuries as having never lost its power, has indeed come to this neighborhood in some form or another. Let us suppose that the true characteristics manifest themselves only at certain intervals, under certain conditions. Have you met many people since you’ve been here?”

“Very few.”

“Any women?”

“Only the one I told you about—the one in the hospital.”

“Oh, yes. Carla . . . er . . .”

“Hoffmann,” said Paul eagerly—so eagerly that he saw Meister smile as they went into the house.

“What’s she like?”

“Very beautiful.”

“I see. You’re in love with her?”

“I didn’t say so,”

“You didn’t have to,” said Meister. “And now”—he yawned—“I think a good night’s sleep is called for. We will follow it by some inquiries at the police station.”

“If they let us in,” said Paul.

Meister looked at him reprovingly. “They will let me in.”

Paul had his doubts about this. Professor Meister might be a man of consequence at home, but here there was likely to be little respect for his scholarly attainments.

In the morning he discovered his mistake. The Professor had no intention of relying merely on his reputation as a scholar.

He loftily talked his way into the presence of Inspector Kanof—or, rather, made his way there by dint of refusing to admit that there could be any possibility of denial. Paul, catching the backwash of Kanof’s glare as they entered his office, felt that this was where they came to grief. But Meister, with calculated arrogance, took Kanof’s breath away at once.

“I wish to look through the files which you keep on residents of Vandorf—particularly newcomers to the district.”

The Inspector gasped. “How dare you come in with such a request? Such files are confidential, for official use only.”

“I fear they are not used as thoroughly as they ought to be. There are one or two points I wish to check.”

“Under no circumstances will you be permitted to see any of our files. There is no precedent—”

“Don’t use long words, Inspector. They don’t suit you. I may say that if you don’t wish to assist us, I shall go higher up.”

“Higher up?”

“I presume that even you, Inspector, acknowledge the existence of a superior? The Foreign Secretary, for example.”

“I don’t believe—”

“A very valued friend of my dear brother.”

“I can check on that.”

“Check on it, by all means,” said Meister savagely. “But unless you are very quick about it, my good fellow, and unless I am allowed to see your files . . .”

Kanof writhed and argued, but he stood no chance. Meister was by turns bullying and sardonically reasonable. In the end Kanof agreed that the Professor should be given access to the records.

“Starting,” said Meister, “with those of women aliens registered here within the last ten years.”

When Kanof set his staff bustling down the corridor to collect the files, Meister permitted himself a slight smile in Paul’s direction. Kanof, though now obsequious to his older visitor, made a great show of ignoring Paul as though this might in some way restore a balance.

“Visitors to Vandorf,” explained Kanof when files and photographs were piled on the desk before him, “are required to register only if they wish later to become citizens. Among those still resident here . . .”

He tried to maintain his dignity by being over-helpful where before he had been uncooperative. Meister paid no attention. He turned over files and photographs quickly, and then held out a picture to Paul.

“Is this her?”

Paul looked at a slightly creased photograph of Carla. Her mouth was too set: she had obviously been uncomfortable before the camera.

“It hardly does her justice, but—”

“But it’s her? Mm. How long has she been here?”

“The information’s on the back,” said Kanof.

Meister turned the card over. “Seven years. When did these murders start?”

Kanof jumped. “Murders?”

“I’m referring to the ones which you failed to solve and which everyone in the community has been at such pains to ignore.”

“Five years ago,” Kanof grunted.

“Thank you.”

Meister put the photograph back and rose. Paul got up, filled with unease. He did not see how Meister’s mind was working. As they walked out of the building into the open air, he said:

“I don’t see how Carla comes into this.”

“Or you don’t
want
to see?” said Meister gently.

11

T
he sound of Paul Heitz’s voice along the crackling, whispering telephone line reinforced Carla’s determination. During what remained of the night she had tossed and turned, trying to free herself from a bondage she did not understand. In daylight she had tried to be rational and had found that being rational also meant doing what her heart told her to do. She wanted to cry this down the telephone to Paul, but instead she warmed silently with the fervor of her own resolve, and took his message to Namaroff in the laboratory.

“Mr. Heitz is on the telephone. He and Professor Meister want to make an appointment to see you.”

“Meister?”

“From Leipzig University.”

“I can’t see them,” said Namaroff. “Tell them I’m busy.”

“Mr. Heitz was very insistent.”

His stony eyes were dull with menace. “I have told you, Carla, that for your own safety you must do as I say. This is one of those times when obedience is essential. Go and tell Mr. Heitz that I do not wish to see him or his friend.”

Carla began to turn away. She would tell Paul that; but she would take the opportunity of telling him many other things.

Abruptly Namaroff said: “Carla.” When she stopped, he slammed his hand down on the bench. “When you went for your walk last night, you said you were alone. You lied to me.”

It was all she needed to spark her off. “Do I have to account to you for everything I do?”

“You were with Paul Heitz, weren’t you?”

She needed to hit back, to seize on every opportunity for a break that would be permanent.

“You’ve been spying on me,” she accused him. “Who do you use? Ratoff, I suppose. Always Ratoff—spying and watching me, telling you everything I do when I’m out of your sight.”

His expression told her that she was right. In an unexpectedly subdued tone, he said: “It’s only for your own good.”

“And who are you to decide what’s good for me?”

“I’m trying to protect you. I told you last night, there are times when you shouldn’t be alone.”

He had told her, but not in quite those words. Something about them struck a chill to Carla’s heart, which had been filled with such different emotions a few minutes ago. She was afraid of the implications in what he said; yet not so afraid that she was going to evade them.

She said: “Tell me about those times. Tell me . . . what happens . . . what happens to me.”

It was as far as she dared go. And Namaroff simply shook his head. “I can’t. Not yet.”

“Because it’s all an invention. You’re trying to frighten me.”

“I only want to take care of you.”

The genuine suffering in his voice was the most terrifying thing of all.

“Frighten me!” Carla cried again. “So that I’ll submit to being your prisoner. I’ve had enough. I’m sick of your jealousy, and sick of these horrors you help to build up around the place—sick of you!”

She turned towards the door and this time he let her go without a word. She would have preferred him to shout abuse after her. It was with a shaking hand that she picked up the telephone earpiece and spoke into the trumpet of the mouthpiece.

“Paul? I’m sorry I was so long. I was trying . . . but Dr. Namaroff won’t see you.”

“Won’t he? Did he give any reason?”

“He says he’s too busy.” There was a sceptical murmur along the wire. Then she said: “Paul—meet me tomorrow. Tomorrow morning.” She quickly estimated the time she would need, to be able to see him and to be on duty at her usual time. “Meet me at seven o’clock in the morning,” she said, “at the Castle Borski.”

Before he could reply she had to hang up. Ratoff was a few yards away, carefully not watching her, and just as carefully appearing not to listen. She was sure he had not been there a moment ago and sure that he could not have overheard her tense, quiet last words. But his mere presence was infuriating. In the morning she would have to take every precaution to shake him off if he had any suspicions of her.

It proved to be a pale, still morning. As she slipped away from the Institution buildings she looked back several times, but there was no sign of anyone stirring. Carla felt jubilant. The air was fresh, birds were singing in the trees along the stream, and as she climbed the slope from Vandorf the Institution and the village itself looked smaller and smaller, less and less significant.

Then the birdsong grew feebler. By the time she reached the forest there was silence, broken only by her own footsteps and the occasional snap of a dry twig. The castle loomed ahead. In the morning light it could have been imposing, if not beautiful; but it was haunted by invisible shadows, echoing with sounds inaudible to the human ear.

Carla climbed without flagging, crossed the courtyard, and entered the great hall. It was not until she was inside that she asked herself why she had chosen such a meeting-place. Of course she was less likely to be followed here: even Ratoff would be scared of this place. But there had been more to it than that. In this unhallowed, desolate jumble of turrets, statues, and cobwebs she felt strangely safe. At one and the same moment she felt fear and security.

Slowly she climbed the staircase. Between two statues stood a stone chair with the dimensions of a throne. It was spattered with flinty fragments. Carla brushed them aside and sat down facing the balcony rail, waiting.

All was going to be well. Paul was coming and they would make plans and go away. Whatever deep-seated motive it was that had kept her in Vandorf so long, it was going to be dislodged from her mind.

There was a scraping sound from the hall below. A few pieces of stone were kicked across the floor.