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.
"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.