Image of the Beast / Blown

  kin and Mrs. Krautschner but they did not smile or say

  anything. They seemed eager to get back to their game.

  Igescu did not explain what their status was but Childe

  thought that the girl must be the house guest he had

  mentioned.

  Glam appeared suddenly and noiselessly, as if he slid

  spaces around him instead of moving himself. He

  gave a manila envelope to Igescu. Childe glanced at

  Igescu as he removed the photo from the envelope, then

  he looked up. Glam had gone as swiftly and silently as

  he had entered.

  The photo was taken from about forty feet during

  the daytime. Light flooding in from the large window

  showed everything in detail. There was Dolores del

  Osorojo just about to leave the hall through a doorway.

  The edge of the doorway and part of a chair nearby

  could be faintly made out through her. She was look-

  ing back at the camera with the same faint smile as in

  her painting.

  "I'll have to have it back," Igescu said.

  10

  "As you say, a photo proves nothing," Childe said. He

  looked at his wristwatch. A half hour left. He opened

  his mouth to ask about the car accident and the morgue

  incident but Magda Holyani entered.

  She was a tall, slim, small-breasted woman of about

  thirty with beautiful although disproportioned features

  and thick pale-yellow hair. She walked as if her bones

  were flexible or as if her flesh encased ten thousand

  delicate intricately articulated bones. The bones of her

  head seemed to be thin; her cheekbones were high, and

  her eyes were tilted. The mouth was too thin. There was

  something indefinably reptilian about her, or, to be

  more exact, snakish. This was not repulsive. After all,

  many snakes are beautiful.

  Her eyes were so light he thought at first they were

  colorless, but, closer, they became a very light gray. Her

  skin was very white, as if she shunned not only the sun

  but the day. It was, however, flawless. She had no makeup

  whatever. The lips would have looked pale if she had

  been standing next to a woman with rouged lips, but set

  against her own white skin they seemed dark and bright.

  She wore a tight-fitting black dress with a deep

  square-cut bodice and almost no back. Her stockings were

  black nylon, and the high-heeled shoes were black. She

  sat down after being introduced, revealing beautiful,

  but seemingly boneless, legs from the mid-thigh down.

  She took over the conversation from Igescu, who lit up

  an expensive cigar and seemed to become lost in gazing

  into the smoke.

  Childe tried to keep the conversation to a question-

  and-answer interview, but she replied briefly and un-

  satisfactorily and followed with a question each time

  about himself or his work. He felt that he was being in-

  terviewed.

  He was becoming desperate. This would be his only

  chance to find out anything, and he was not even get-

  ting a "feel" of lightness or wrongness about this place

  and its tenants. They were a little odd, but this meant

  nothing, especially in Southern California.

  He noticed that Glam was busying himself nearby

  with emptying the Baron's and Magda's ash trays, refilling

  the glasses, and at the same time managing to keep his

  eyes on the woman. Once, he touched her, and she

  snapped her head back and glared at him. Igescu was

  aware that Childe was taking this in, but he only smiled.

  Finally, Childe ignored her to ask Igescu directly if

  he would care to comment on the much-publicized "vam-

  pire" incident. After all, it was this that had brought

  him out here. And so far he had not learned much.

  The article would be spare, if indeed he had enough

  data to make an article.

  "Frankly, Mr. Wellston," Igescu said, "I permitted this

  interview because I wanted to kill people's curiosity about

  this once and for all. Essentially, I am a man who likes

  privacy; I am wealthy but I leave the conduct of my

  business to others and enjoy myself. You have seen my

  library. It is very extensive and expensive and contains

  many first editions. It covers a wide variety of subjects.

  I can say without bragging that I am an extremely well-

  read man in many languages. Ten shelves are filled with

  books on my hobby: precious stones. But you may also

  have observed several shelves filled with books on

  such subjects as witchcraft, vampirism, lycanthropy, and

  so on. I am somewhat interested in these, but not, Mr.

  Wellston, because I take a professional interest."

  He smiled over his cigar and said, "No, it is not be-

  cause I am a vampire, Mr. Wellston, that I have read in

  these subjects. I took no interest in them until after the

  incident that caused you to come here. I thought that if

  I were to be accused of being a vampire, I had better

  find out just what a vampire was. I knew something

  about them, of course, because after all, I do come

  from an area in which the peasants believe more in

  vampires and the devil than they do in God. But my

  tutors never went much into folk-lore, and my contacts

  with the local non-nobility were not intimate.

  "I decided to give you this interview so that, once

  and for all, this nonsense about my vampirism could be

  quelled. And also, to divert attention from me toward

  the only truly supernatural feature of this house: Dolores

  del Osorojo. I have changed my mind about photo-

  graphs for your article. I will have Magda send you a

  number. These will show some of the rooms in the

  house and various photos of the ghost. I will do this on

  the condition that you make it clear-in your article that

  I am a man who likes privacy and a quiet life and that

  the vampire talk is nonsense. After getting that out of the

  way, you may stress the ghost as much as you like. But

  you must also make it clear that there will be no other

  interviews with anybody and that I do not like to be dis-

  turbed by curiosity-seekers, spiritualists, or journalists.

  Agreed?"

  "Certainly, Mr. Igescu. You have my word. And of

  course, as agreed, you will edit the article before it's

  published."

  Childe felt a little dizzy. He wished that he had not

  accepted the brandy. It had been four years since he

  had drunk anything, and he would not have broken

  his rule now, except that Igescu had praised the brandy

  as being so rare that he had been tempted to try it. And

  he had also not wanted to offend his host in any way

  if he could help it. He had, however, not had more

  than one tumbler. The stuff was either very potent or he

  was vulnerable after the long dry period.

  Igescu turned his head to look at the tall dark grand-

  father clock. "Your time is about up, Mr. Wellston."

  Childe wondered why the baron was so concerned

  with time, when, by his own admission, he seldom went
>
  any place or did anything particularly pressing. But

  he did not ask. The baron would have regarded such

  a question as too impertinent to answer with anything

  but cold silence.

  Igescu stood up. Childe rose also. Magda Holyani fin-

  ished her drink and got up from the chair. Glam ap-

  peared in the doorway, but Igescu said, "Miss Holyani

  will drive Mr. Wellston to the gate, Glam. I need you

  for another duty."

  Glam opened his mouth as if he meant to object but

  shut it immediately. He said, "Very well, sir," and

  wheeled around and walked away.

  Igescu said, "If you'd like some more material for your

  article, Mr. Wellston, you might look up Michel Le

  Garrault in the UCLA library. I have copies of two of

  his works, first editions, by the way. The old Belgian

  had some very interesting and original theories about

  vampires, werewolves, and other so-called supernatural

  phenomena. His theory of psychic imprinting is fascinat-

  ing. Have you read him? Can you read French?"

  "Never heard of him," Childe said, wondering if he

  would have fallen into a trap if he had professed famil-

  iarity. "I do read French."

  "There are many so-called authorities on the occult

  and supernatural who have not heard of Le Garrault or

  had no chance to read him. I recommend that you go to

  the rare book section of the UCLA library and ask

  for Les Murs écroulés. Translations of the original

  Latin were made in French and, curiously, in Bohemian,

  and these are very rare indeed. There are, as far as I

  know, only ten Latin copies in the world. The Vatican

  has one; a Swedish monastery has two; I, of course,

  have one; the Kaiser of Germany had one but it was

  lost or, probably, stolen after he died at Doom; and the

  other five are in state libraries at Moscow, Paris, Wash-

  ington, London, and Edinburgh."

  "I'll look him up," Childe said. "Thanks very much

  for the information."

  He turned to follow Igescu out and saw the woman in

  Spanish dress, high comb stuck in her black hair, just

  stepping into a doorway at the end of the hall. She

  turned her head and smiled and then was gone.

  Igescu said, calmly, "Did you see her, too?"

  "Yes, I did. But I couldn't see through her," Childe

  said.

  "I did," Magda Holyani said. Her voice shook a

  little. Childe looked at her. She seemed to be angry, not

  frightened.

  "As I said, she has been getting more and more

  opaque," Igescu said. "The solidifying is so subtle, that

  it's only noticeable if you compare what she was six

  months ago with what she now is. The process has been

  very slow but steady. When I first moved in here, she

  was almost invisible."

  Childe shook his head. Was he really discussing a

  ghost as if it existed? And why was Magda so upset?

  She had stopped and was staring at the doorway as if

  she were resisting the impulse to chase after the thing.

  "Many people, more people than care to admit, have

  seen ghostly phenomena—something weird and unexplain-

  able, anyway—but neither the phenomenon doesn't repeat

  itself or else the people 'visited' ignore it and it goes away.

  But Dolores, ah, there is another story! Dolores is ignored

  by me, except for an occasional picture-taking. Magda

  used to ignore her but now she seems to be getting on her

  nerves. Dolores is gaining substance from somewhere,

  perhaps from someone in this house."

  Certainly, the story of Dolores was gaining substance.

  If a photo of her was no evidence that she existed,

  neither was the fact that he had seen her. For some

  reason, Igescu might have planned this whole thing, and

  if he, Childe, were to run after Dolores and try to seize

  her, what would his hands close on? He had a feeling

  that he would grip solid flesh and that the young woman

  would turn out to have come into existence about twenty

  years ago, not one hundred and fifty.

  At the door, he shook hands with Igescu, thanked

  him, and promised to send him a carbon of the article

  for editing. He followed Magda to the car and turned

  once before getting in to look back. Igescu was gone,

  but a blind had been half-raised and Glam's bulldog face

  and batwing ears were plainly visible.

  He got into the front seat with Magda at her invita-

  tion. She said, "My job pays very well, you know. It

  has to. It's the only thing that would make it endurable.

  I almost never get a chance to go to town and the only

  ones I can talk to, ever, are my boss and a few servants

  and occasionally a guest."

  "Is it hard work?" Childe asked, wondering why

  she was telling him this. Perhaps she had to unburden

  herself to someone.

  "No. I take care of his few social obligations, make ap-

  pointments, act as middle man between him and his busi-

  ness managers, do some typing on the book he's writing

  on jewels, and spend more time than I care to staying

  away from that monster, Glam."

  "He did nothing definite, but I got the idea that he's

  quite attached to you," Childe said.

  The beams swept across trees as the car went around

  a corner. The moon was up now, and he could see

  more distinctly. He could be wrong, but it seemed to him

  that they were not on the same road he had traveled on

  the way up.

  "I'm taking the longer, no less scenic, route," she

  said, as if she had read his mind. "I hope you don't

  mind. I feel that I just have to talk to somebody. You

  don't have to listen to me, of course, there's no reason

  why you should."

  "Pour it on me," he said. "I like to hear your voice."

  They passed through the gateway of the inner wall.

  She drove slowly, in first gear, as she talked, and once

  she put her hand on his leg. He did not move. She took

  her hand off after a minute when she had to stop the

  car. They had driven off the road onto a narrow stone-

  covered path which led through a break in the trees to a

  clearing. A small summerhouse, a round wooden struc-

  ture on a high round cement base, stood there. Its open

  sides were partially covered with vines, so that its interior

  was dark. A flight of cement steps led up to the wide

  entrance.

  "I get very lonely," she said, "although the baron is

  charming and does talk a lot. But he's not interested in

  me in the way some employers are in their female

  employees."

  He did not have to ask her what she meant by that.

  She had put her hand on his leg again, seemingly as

  accidentally or unself-consciously as before. He said,

  "Are there wolves out here, too? Or are they all inside the

  inner wall?"

  She was leaning closer now, and her perfume was so

  strong that it seemed to soak into his pores. He felt his

  penis swelling and he took her hand and moved it so that

  it wa
s on his penis. She did not try to take her hand

  away.

  He reached over and ran a finger down along the curve

  of the left breast and down the cleavage into the breast.

  His hand went on down and slid between the cloth and

  breast and rubbed over the nipple. The nipple swelled,

  and she shuddered. He kissed her with many slidings of

  his tongue along hers and over her teeth. She fumbled

  along his zipper, found it, pulled it slowly down, and

  then probed through the opening of his jockey shorts.

  He unbuttoned the front of her dress and quickly verified

  what he had suspected. She wore nothing beneath the

  dress except for a narrow garter belt. The breasts were

  small but shapely. He bent over and took a nipple in his

  mouth and began sucking. She was breathing as hard as

  he.

  "Let's go in the summerhouse," she said softly.

  "There's a couch in there."

  "All right," he said. "But before we go any further,

  you should know I'm unprepared. I don't have any

  rubbers."

  He would not have been surprised if she said that she

  had some in her handbag. It wouldn't have been the first

  time that this had happened to him.

  But she said, "Never mind. I won't get pregnant."

  Shakily, he followed her out of the car, sliding past

  the wheel. She turned and slid the dress off her shoulders.

  The moonlight gleamed on the whitest flesh possible, on

  dark wet nipples, and dark triangle of pubic hairs under

  the garter belt. She kicked her shoes off and, clad only

  in belt and stockings, swayed towards the summerhouse.

  He followed her, but he was not so excited that he did

  not wonder about cameras and sound devices in the sum-

  merhouse. He knew that he was good-looking, but he was

  not, after all, a god who swept all women before him

  on a tide of desire. If Magda Holyani seduced him on

  such short acquaintance, she either was very hard-up or

  had a motive that he might not like if he knew. Or, pos-

  sibly, both. She did not seem to be faking her passion.

  If, for some reason, she thought she could lead him so

  far, turn him on and then turn him off, she was going to

  be surprised. He had suffered a good part of yesterday

  with a painful ball-ache because of his unfinished love-