Clay Page 12

  But, events have taken a strange turn. The Conrad affair is no longer simply a missing persons case; it is a crime whose, hideous memory still lurks in the mirror of the tarn that separates the Castle from the deserted village of Zengerstein. Perhaps, when you have come to know the facts of the case, you will say that I, Ludwig Koch, Inspector of Police of the town of Donaueschingen, some twenty kilometres to the north, should have guessed at the macabre truth. But, I am a simple man. My dealings in the world of crime had been with petty theft and trespassing. Never before had I been drawn into such a web of malignity as shrouded the house of Luther Markheim. I had heard men whisper, on a winter’s night in the hofbrau, of an evil that lingers in shadow, beyond the understanding of normal minds; once, in a visit to Baden, I had seen the Teufels Kanzel - on the brink of the Schwarzwald, Where, legend has it, the Devil preached to his disciples; to me, it seemed only an altar of scorched stone. The supernatural has always been beyond my ken. But, of late, I have undergone a change. Having witnessed the horror of Zengerstein, only an idiot could remain an unbeliever.

  The entire truth of the affair has never before been disclosed. For years, it has lain in the police archives, at Donaueschingen, buried in the rotting pages of the manuscript of Luther Markheim. Qnly recently it was decided that in view of work being done by one Sigmund Freud in a new field called psychiatry, it would be advisable to release the story of Zengerstein that these doctors might benefit by study of the quirks of a criminal mind in action. To outward appearances, the manuscript does not seem extraordinary; it was written in ink by a precise hand the story is told with scientific clarity; and, except one turned to the last scrawled lines, except one examined the brownish stains on the final pages and knew them to be the marks of dried blood, one would never guess that these words were written by a man who had been blind for nearly a decade.

  THE MARKHEIM MANUSCRIPT

  There is so little time. Now, in the night, here in my bedchamber, I should feel safe. I should know that there can be no truth in the unholy phantasms that have come to haunt my every, waking moment. The doors are locked. Nothing could penetrate those, ponderous panels. Nothing human. Yet, at every whimper of the wind in the grate, I start; the howling of the wolfhounds gnaws at my nerves. Rain sobs against the casement, lashed by the winds sweeping up from the River Murg. And throughout the stormy night, Koch and his deputies continue to wander the Black Forest, their lanterns bobbing like cat’s-eyes in outer darkness. Still they search for Simon Conrad. Soon, perhaps, they shall return to Zengerstein to question me again. But, it is not Koch I fear. It is that thing no barred portal can ward off; that bloated livid face that floats somewhere in the well of the mirror by the bed; dark beings stir in the pit beyond that glass and every moment, the scabrous visage grows nearer, the blind eyes burn more fiercely. Soon, it will rise from the crypts beneath the castle. I know. There is no escape. Soon, the time will have run out. And then, the slash of the scalpel, the pale face pressed close to mine —and death. The same death that monster brought to Simon Conrad short weeks ago.

  It is incredible that things have come to this impasse. Every step of my plan was laid with such care. And, now, at the final moment, the whole structure crumbles beneath me. There can be but one answer. Somewhere, I have made a mistake; some thread of the web has tangled and snapped. Perhaps, if I retrace every step, there may yet be time for reparation. I must be exceedingly careful. I must not slip again. This is my last chance.

  *

  IT BEGAN nine years ago, in Freiburg, in the winter of 189— I was a different man, then. I was not a ponderous object of pity with a scarred face and sightless eyes; people then did not avoid me and turn to their friends to whisper that a "has-been” always depressed them. In December of 189- I was one of the most successful men in the city of the Hapsburgs. Mine was a place of honor at the banquet-tables of the Freiherren. My huge, bulk then was the impressive figure of a man in the prime of life, well-dressed, imposing, a monument to the scientific genius it embodied; women marvelled at my delicate, sensitive hands —the hands of Herr Doktor Luther Markheim, one of the greatest surgeons in Germany. I was chief of staff at the Spital Hapsburg; the universities of Vienna had honored me with degrees for my work in surgical research. Countless students came to me, inspired, to study the art of the knife; it was among them that I discovered Victor Rupert.

  He was not an idiot. An idiot could never have gained my, confidence as he did. From the outset, it was obvious that his was the most promising talent in my select, class at the Freiburg Universitat. His hands were slim and steady; he used the scalpel with the dexterity of a miniature-painter. No. There was nothing idiotic about Victor Rupert. But, he was a weakling and a fool. The only son of a burger who had made a fortune in ale and bestowed on himself a Baron’s coronet, from his boyhood, Victor was a coddled child; on the death of his parents he came into a considerable estate, and continued where his mother and father left off— he coddled himself. Small, dark-skinned, with huge eyes, he affected florid waistcoats and the softest boots that money could buy. His time was divided between the hofbrau barmaids, and the ladies of the chorus at the Theater Strauss.

  The evening invariably ended with some passing companions carrying Victor, dead drunk, to his quarters in the Freiburgstrasse, and departing with whatever money they could steal. A fool; a weakling whose brain had lost control of the flesh. I thought I could change him; I thought, in time, I could make him a useful member of the profession. I should have known better. I should have cast him back into drunken oblivion where he belonged. I should have destroyed him, before he destroyed me.

  I dare not dwell upon the details of the accident; for me, every moment of remembering is agony relived. The stench of chemical gas in the laboratory, the horrified look of realization on the face of the student named Lund, the roar of the explosion and hellfire eating into my flesh, slicing across my eyes, Lund’s screams slowly dwindling, and at last, merciful darkness. You may find the known facts of the case in the files of any newspaper in Freiburg; they tell me the Zeitung Leute bore the headline:

  PROMINANT SURGEON BLINDED,

  STUDENT KILLED,

  IN UNIVERSITY BLAST

  It was, called a freak accident; the truth never reached the public; no one ever knew that an hour before, I had seen Rupert conducting an experiment in that laboratory; no one ever guessed that the "accident” was caused by the negligence of a fool whose mind was still fogged by the burgundy he had swilled the night before.

  Rupert was terrified. Exactly how, I have never learned —possibly by bribing the orderly— he gained my bedside before the authorities had questioned me. He clutched my sleeve; abject terror whined in every breath he drew.

  "Before God, Herr Doktor, I’ll do whatever you ask! I’ll work for you, devote my life to serving you; give you all the money I have in this world. But, I beg of you...!” A sob broke his words. "On my knees, I beg you, do not tell them it was I...”

  Anger seethed in the new, obscene darkness of my brain. My throat felt tight. I freed my arm of his quivering grasp.

  “Snivelling swine!” I hissed. "Why? Tell me one reason why I should remain silent!” Laughter tore through my facial bandages. "The priceless fool! He destroys my sight; he ruins the career of a genius! And, then, he asks my protection!” The laugh shattered on a furious sob. My fingers closed over his wrist the bones felt thin and brittle; I twisted. “Why?. Tell me, Victor; Why?”

  I felt his body wince; he whimpered.

  “Nein, Herr Doktor! You must understand! They would imprison me! Throw me into a cell; leave me to rot! I... I could not endure it; I am a sensitive man…”

  “Indeed!”

  “Lieber Gott, have mercy, mein herr!” The clammy wrist writhed in my grip. “I promise you! Whatever I have is yours; my money, my life! You must listen, to me!”

  And, in the end, I did.

  Do not misunderstand. I did not forgive Rupert. How can you forgive the inane court-jest
er who has destroyed the Castle? No, I listened to Rupert because it was to my advantage to listen. Already, I had tasted the first bitter consequences of my blindness; a voice by my bed when they thought I was still unconscious: "Well, that finishes the great Markheim. A pity. But, he was getting on in years.... Perhaps it is as well to go out before your talent deteriorates....” This from a medical idiot unfit to be my laboratory assistant! Pity, old acquaintances uneasy in my blind fumbling presence, slow decay surrounded by mocking memories of what I once had been; that was the prospect of life should I remain in Freiburg. I had lived well; now, with only the pittance granted by the Spital Hapsburg, I should be buried alive in some dank areaway, three flights up, forgotten, alone. I knew I could not stand it; I knew I must escape. Victor Rupert offered the way out. His money would allow me to live comfortably and in seclusion; to hide the ruined tomb of genius that was my body in the solitude of the Castle von Zengerstein.

  *

  THE Baronial title of Zengerstein was no tinsel honor bought by some grubby burger suddenly grown rich. As early as 1407 the coronet was bestowed upon one General Lothar von Zengerstein of the Army of Ferdinand, by the Emperor himself; the title carried with it certain lands, some miles south of Donaueschingen, bordering the Black Forest, and dominated by an ancient, brooding Schloss; under the guiding hand of Lothar, a shrewd business man when not campaigning, the estate and the village that sprang up in the Castle’s, shadow, rapidly became one of the most prosperous in the Lower Schwarzwald region. There was food and comfort for all; the bauer who paid allegiance to Lothar were content. The house of Zengerstein bore sons; like their fathers, they followed the military life; Zengersteinschloss rang with the laughter of late revelry and wine. Such was the state of affairs when my grandfather, Bruno, Ninth Baron von Zengerstein, became head of the house.

  Bruno was the father of two sons and a daughter, Lizavetta; Lizavetta von Zengerstein was my mother. My earliest recollections center about the mammoth halls of the Castle, where I was taken to live when my father, Paul Markheim, a medical student in Vienna, died of consumption shortly after my birth. I recall the towering figures of my grandfather and uncles grouped about the Teutonic hearth, drinking schnapps and laughing boisterously over the success of some past campaign, on the battlefield, or in the kitchen of the Inn with the new barmaid. I was in a private school in Berlin when the Franco-Prussian war broke out; vague stirrings of it reached my sheltered world. Baron Bruno and his son’s were among the first to reach the front; the younger son was killed by a musket-ball that shattered his brain; Karl, the eldest, died of typhoid in an obscure village in the Midi. Baron von Zengerstein returned a broken man.

  The death of his sons destroyed all hope for fulfillment of his one desire; there would never be an heir to carry on the name of Zengerstein. He was an old man, his powers wasted in a profligate youth, and now, he entombed himself in the Castle to brood away the final hours of the last of the Zengersteins. Unwholesome legends surround the last days of Bruno von Zengerstein; it is said that in his mad desire to perpetuate his line, he consorted with the powers of darkness; the shelves of his private library were cluttered with volumes of forbidden lore; more than one village girl was terrorized by the cloaked figure that roamed the region of the Castle tarn during the night hours. The bauer grew uneasy; after sundown, they clung to their hearthfires behind locked cottage-doors. One by one, families packed their belonging's and moved on, away from the Schwarzwald, where, if legend does not lie, the souls of Bruno’s unborn heirs bayed like hounds to the baleful moon. The village was empty thatched cottagerooves caved in and rats burrowed in the ruins. Zengersteinschloss fell into disrepair; the priceless tapestries decayed; cobwebs coated the stone walls; cold grates bore charred relics of sacrifices made by the Baron von Zengerstein. The peasants who found his body and buried it in the Castle crypt, say that the contorted dead face could only have been that of a madman. My mother was living, at that time, in Berlin; she did not go home for the last rites of the Baron. The strange stories frightened her; once, she expressed the desire never to see Zengerstein again; her wish was granted. When she returned to the Castle, she lay in the sightless dark of her coffin. At the age of twenty-nine, I became legal heir to the Baronial lands of Zengerstein.

  My homecoming fell far short of that of which I had so often dreamed. I had thought one day to return, triumphant; I had planned again and again the restoration of the State of Zengerstein. And now, at last, I would return; but the dreams were shattered. I rode to the Castle in the coach of a reluctant driver who feared the lonely road that wound through the hamlet to the gates of Zengerstein. I returned the blind relic of a genius who spoke to none save the companion he called Victor, to pass the lingering years alone and embittered. But, at least, I thought, I would find peace in oblivion.

  *

  I WAS wrong. For nine years I pursued the mocking shadow of contentment; nine years tortured by fantasies of what heights my career might have attained but for the weakness of Victor Rupert, nine years of festering blind ambition, during which one idea came to obsess me: I must see again! Together with Victor, I made an exhaustive study of blindness; night after night he read aloud from countless ancient volumes; his voice cracked; his eyes ached; I gave him no rest. Every bypath of science and sorcery, every chance of recovery, by miracle or surgery, we explored. And, slowly, in my mind, there began to formulate a rather terrifying theory; bit by bit, fragments of medical knowledge fell into place to weave the weird pattern. It was only a theory; I told myself to be detached, weigh every possibility. There was perhaps one chance in a million that the theory would succeed in practice. Failure might mean death. But, I knew I would take that chance, if only I had the materials with which to work—the forbidden human materials. That problem was solved the night Simon Conrad came to Zengerstein.

  It is not strange that Conrad lost his way. That evening a bulwark of clouds swept southward along the River Murg; fog crawled through the deserted village- lanes, and settled like a caul over the tarn outside the gates of Zengerstein. The storm unleashed furiously in the dusk. Winds keened in the catacombs beneath the Castle. Rain lashed at the casements of the library until, with a nervous gesture, Victor closed the velvet portieres. In that storm, Simon Conrad did not have a chance. At best, the roads of the district are few and obscured by the lichen-fingers of the encroaching forest. A single footpath circles Zengerstein and winds on into the flatlands that stretch toward Donaueschingen; but at a certain point in that lane, the traveler may easily go astray, and find himself lost in the byways of Zengerstein with none of whom to ask the way, no path to take but the rutted passage that climbs the hill to the gates of the Castle itself.

  All day, Victor and I had been, restless; never ideal companions, penned in too long by the storm, we could scarcely bear each other’s presence. Victor haunted the wine-cabinet; I lost count of the times the decanter clinked against his glass. I ignored him; my mind busied itself with one thought; the possibilities of the success of my experiment. The library had been long silent, save for the whimpering of the storm.

  Then, suddenly, after dark, the wolfhounds that guard the grounds of Zengerstein broke into the howl of attack. Breath hissed between Victor’s lips; his light tread crossed the floor to the casement; the portieres were drawn aside. The howling grew louder.

  “What is it?” I snapped. "Victor, what's the matter with those infernal beasts!”

  “I can’t see clearly...” Rupert’s voice was strained. "There seems to be a light... out by the tarn... A man, carrying a lantern...”

  “A man...?” I strode to his side, caught his shoulder.

  “Yes... My shoulder... you’re hurting me... Please, there’s no need to be frightened... The hounds will rout him...”

  “Call them off,” I cut in sharply.

  “What?” Victor whined. "But, the man may be a thief... a killer...”

  “You heard me! I want that man unharmed! Call off the dogs!”


  He obeyed.

  I heard his cry to the animals; the angry baying died away. Victor was still uneasy but he did not question my next command; he ran through the downfall toward the steaming tarn. He was gone some time; he must have had difficulty helping the trespasser to shelter, for, though unharmed, the man who sank into the hearth-chair was badly shaken and terrified. His breath came in sobs; in his grip, the glass of brandy Victor had given him rattled against his teeth. A full five minutes passed before he had grown calm enough to speak, or understand what was said to him.

  *

  I FLATTER myself that I handled my first interview with Simon Conrad with consummate art; the circumstances were far from favorable, but, in the minutes, that had lapsed since the first baying of the hounds a cunning assurance had lain hold on my mind. Winning Conrad over was ridiculously easy. Victor told me the man’s right hand had been scratched by the fangs of Prinz; under my most solicitous directions, Simon Conrad’s wound was cared for; he was supplied with dry clothes, steaming coffee, and an invitation to spend the night at Zengerstein. I apologized for the necessary precaution of the dogs; with what craft I played upon his sympathies for the idiosyncracies of a blind recluse! As he sighed and sank back in his chair Simon Conrad brimmed with good-will and our best wine.

  "Jawohl, Herr Doktor, this is quite an adventure I have had! Traveling alone in the Schwarzwald country is not the pastime for a timorous man, I fear...”

  He laughed with inane good humor; I fancy my response was a trifle false. I was not in a mood for laughter. Alone! I thought. Then, he is alone! Excitement dried my throat. Every thread of the pattern fell so neatly into place! I wearied of his chatter. I writhed under his gauche solicitude for my affliction.