Ghouls in My Grave, page 6
‘It was the year of the great fire that nearly destroyed Hamburg. The Mohlenstrasse and the vast section of the city between it and the Deichstrasse were a sea of flames.’
‘And Archipetre?’
‘He lived rather far from there, toward Bleichen. The fire didn’t reach his street, but in the middle of the second night, on May 6 – a terrible night, dry and without water – his house burned down, all alone among the others that were miraculously spared. He died in the flames; or at least he was never found.’
‘The story…’ I began.
Lockmann Gockel did not let me finish. He was so happy to have found an outlet that he seized upon the subject greedily. Fortunately he told me more or less what I wanted to hear.
‘The story compressed time, just as space was compressed at the fateful location of Saint Beregonne’s Lane. In the Hamburg archives, there are accounts of atrocities committed during the fire by a band of mysterious evil-doers. Fantastic crimes, looting, riots, red hallucinations on the part of whole crowds – all those things are precisely described, and yet they took place before the fire. Do you understand my reference to the contraction of space and time?’
His face became a little calmer.
‘Isn’t modern science driven back to Euclidean weakness by the theory of that admirable Einstein for whom the whole world envies us? And isn’t it forced to accept, with horror and despair, that fantastic Fitzgerald-Lorentz law of contraction? Contraction! Ah, there’s a word that’s heavy with meaning!’
The conversation seemed to be going off on an insidious tangent.
The young woman silently brought tall glasses filled with yellow wine. Gockel raised his toward the flame and marvellous colours flowed onto his frail hand like a silver river of gems.
He abandoned his scientific dissertation and returned to the story of the conflagration:
‘My grandfather, and other people of the time, reported that enormous green flames shot up from the debris. There were hallucinated people who claimed to see figures of indescribably ferocious women in them.’
The wine had a soul. I emptied the glass and smiled at Gockel’s terrified words.
‘Those same green flames,’ he went on, ‘rose from Archipetre’s house and roared so horribly that people were said to have died of fear in the street.’
‘Mr. Gockel,’ I said, ‘did your grandfather ever speak of the mysterious purchaser who came every evening to buy the same trays and the same candlesticks?’
A weary voice replied for him, in words that were almost identical with those that ended the German manuscript:
‘A tall old woman, an immense old woman with fishy eyes in an incredible face. She brought bags of gold so heavy that our grandfather had to divide them into four parts to carry them to his coffers.’
The young woman continued:
‘When Professor Archipetre came to my grandfather, the Gockel firm was about to go bankrupt. It became rich, and we’re still enormously rich, from the gold of the…yes, from the gold of those beings of the night!’
‘They’re gone now,’ murmured her brother, refilling our glasses.
‘Don’t say that! They can’t have forgotten us. Remember our nights, our horrible nights! All I can hope for now is that there is, or was, a human presence with them that they cherish and that may intercede for us.’
Her lovely eyes opened wide before the black abyss of her thoughts.
‘Kathie!’ exclaimed Gockel. ‘Have you again seen?…’
‘You know the things are here every night,’ she said in a voice as low as a moan. ‘They assail our thoughts as soon as sleep comes over us. Ah, to sleep no more!…’
‘To sleep no more,’ repeated her brother in an echo of terror.’
‘They come out of their gold, which we keep, and which we love in spite of everything; they rise from everything we’ve acquired with that infernal fortune.…They’ll always come back, as long as we exist, and as long as this wretched earth endures!’
I Killed Alfred Heavenrock
I placed my bicycle against a pillar and unfolded the map that I had obtained from Colson, Mivvins & Mivvins. It was a map of Kent and part of Surrey but the clerk who gave it to me said that Kent was best. She had lied - of course - because I never knew people less disposed than Kent people to buy Sheffield razors, tubes of having cream, bottles of soothing water, in brief, everything one needs to get a hairless clean face.
The map was thorough enough to get me to St. Mary Cray, leaving London through Lewisham, but from Orpington on it presented annoying errors and lacunae. That is why I searched in vain for Chelsfield, which the clerk had marked with a red pencil, leading me to believe that it would be a good selling spot.
Fortunately, an emaciated and hirsute being came to my rescue. Covered with twigs and red sand, he came out of a thicket, where he had probably finished a profitable little nap. "Can you give me a light?” he asked, touching the remains of a hat.
I could and I told him so.
"I don’t have any cigarettes either,” he added.
I gave him a cigarette and a light and he gave me the good look of a grateful dog.
"Are you looking for something around here?” he asked, between two puffs.
"As a matter of fact yes, Chelsfield.”
"You are turning your back to it, but don’t regret it, it’s full of fools. Here, it’s Ruggleton.”
"Ruggleton? That is not mentioned in the map.”
“That is not needed anymore; the Germans did everything that was needed for that. You have placed your bicycle against the last remains of my house."
“This pillar here?"
“It’s the corner stone of the fireplace in the dining room. Once in a while I come to visit and to free Polly’s grave from dead leaves.”
“Oh... your wife?”
“No, my donkey, a fine beast. I wonder how its death could help the Fritz to win the war."
He prepared to take his leave.
“If you have come here to sell something, go to the Elms instead, people there are less dumb than in Chelsfield," he said.
“So, this is all that is left from Ruggleton?” I whispered, caressing the pillar.
“Not really. There is the house of Miss Florence Bee, which has been spared as if by a miracle. You will pass in front of it when going to the Elms, almost facing the cemetery. The house is to let, but who would be foolish enough to want it?”
He made a circular gesture with his hand.
"Ruggleton... Polly... I bid you goodbye forever," he exclaimed vehemently.
“Forever?”
“I have unearthed a job on a cargo that goes to the Caribbean. Once there, I hope to be able to flee from its board and run my
Leading my bicycle by hand, I walked along the cemetery, which had been more thoroughly rummaged by enemy bombs than the Valley of Kings by the Lord Carnarvon’s team, and I saw Miss Florence Bee, leaning on the fence of her garden and watching me walk.
She was a woman approaching her forties, with a pleasant, albeit a bit severe face. She saw me take a look at the yellow sign rising above the holly hedge and smiled.
“If you have been sent by the renting agency..." she started.
I shook my head.
"If you were a gentleman, I would try to sell you one pound of shaving cream,” I said, smiling back.
The opportunities for Miss Bee to exchange a few words with her fellow-creatures must have been rare, because she uttered a few commonplaces about the current hard and uncertain times, with the obvious purpose of not returning too quickly to silence mid solitude.
Since I came into the service of Colson, Mivvins & Mivvins, on commission, it goes without saying that from the moment I left the company of Polly’s old master, to the moment I smiled ill Miss Bee, I had no other intention but to sell razors and soap in the inhabitants of Kent.
A moment later, I had started to build a totally different plan from those that were meant to supply my daily bread.
In that moment, Alfred Heavenrock was born.
I glanced slowly around me and shook my head thoughtfully.
"It’s odd,” I said gently, “truly odd.”
While I was saying that, my eyes went from the sign to the cemetery, without dwelling upon Miss Bee.
"Odd?” she asked.
"Yes, when I think of what Alfred was saying the other day. Alfred Heavenrock is my cousin, a guy unlike others especially as far as his thoughts are concerned. A strange body and a rascal, even though he is my cousin.”
"Heavenrock,” whispered Miss Bee thoughtfully, “that name is not completely unfamiliar to me.”
She obviously lied, hoping to protract the unexpected chat.
"Bah,” I went on, “I don’t think that there was a Heavenrock at Hastings, nor later in the House of Lords or the House of Commons. The only one that is wealthy is Alfred Heavenrock;
I contented myself with going to war.”
She reckoned me with sympathy.
"Would you like to sit down, mister...?”
“David Heavenrock, my friends called me Dave and if I speak of them in the past tense, it is because they all left their bones in French soil, chasing the Fridolins.”
We chose places on the garden bench.
“Why have you said ‘odd’, examining the for-rent sign and the cemetery, since I have followed your look?” she asked suddenly.
I imitated rather well the gesture of a man that is surprised in the innermost regions of his thought.
“Have you really noticed that?" I said naïvely. “Well, here it goes..."
A moment passed. It was a silence full of anticipation for Miss Bee, and of aptly acted confusion for me.
But my project was taking shape.
“Well, you see,” I resumed, in a tone of genuine embarrassment, “just the other day Alfred said to me: ‘you see, David’ - he never called me Dave - ‘you see, I have had enough of London, of large cities and travelling’.”
“ “Try Bath, Margate or Sorlingues,’ I suggested.
“He groaned.
“ ‘Close your holiday prospectus; you no doubt expect to get a commission, but that will not work with me. What I want is a house in some deserted region, near a cemetery that does not receive visits either from the living, or the dead, any more.'
“That’s what he said to me."
Miss Bee opened her eyes wide.
“Dear God, can that be!” she exclaimed.
“Alfred is not like any other," I repeated, “and I do not mean that he is mad, since no one is more cunning than he in rounding off his nest-egg, but he is somewhat...hum... maniac.”
“As much as that?”
“I mean, his hobby consists in conducting séances and reading books on spiritualism. He only swears by Dr. Dee, a sorcerer of sorts from the era of Queen Elizabeth, who busied himself with bringing the dead out of their tombs."
“How awful!” exclaimed Miss Florence, her eyes shining with joy and hope of hearing more.
But I carefully refrained from handing her further details.
"Such silliness make me sick,” I went on, “but I am forced to listen to it, because every once in a while Alfred gives me some help, very little, I should say. However, I would perhaps lie of service to him by pointing your house to him, since it is In fact for rent.”
I got up to take my leave, even if my project demanded a
"Let me offer you... a glass of wine,” offered Miss Bee, after
I made a polite gesture of refusal.
Site looked at me in admiration.
"In that case, you will not say no to a cup of tea. It is very
I accepted, not without having visibly hesitated on my turn.
She let me into a pleasant looking room; I thought it looked even grand, since I immediately noticed two paintings by Histlcr and sumptuous silverware, but I did not betray any surprise.
The lea was excellent and so were the cigarettes, Muratti’s.
"Tell me about your cousin," asked Miss Bee, “since he may
"Old" I exclaimed, “I have promised you nothing! Alfred is an extraordinary guy indeed and even if he is superstitious like the devil, don’t expect to get huge sums from him. When it comes to money, he becomes cool and rigorous like an electronic adding
"I have no such intention,” she protested. “I will be happy to rent him this house, fully furnished, for a reasonable price, so dial once and for all I can go away from this accursed place. I plan to retire to Doncaster, where I own some property."
"How happy you are to be able to say so.”
Women have often told me that my mouth is beautiful to see when by swiftly lowering its comers it signifies grief I think that they are not wrong.
Hence I outlined a quick grimace of that nature and Miss Florence noticed it.
“Don’t be sad, mister... Dave,” she stammered. “Property in Doncaster will not mean happiness.”
“A well placed bullet, say fully in the heart, could make my happiness,” I said, displaying a sombre countenance, “a bullet like the ones Percy Woodside got at Octeville and Bram Stone a little farther...”
Neither Percy Woodside nor Bram Stone had ever existed and the possibility of such a bullet hitting me would represent the greatest of hazards, since I had carried out my military duties way back from the front, as an assistant dispenser.
“Don’t be bitter, Dave,” she begged.
Her hand rested on mine.
“Everybody has some worries... By the way, are you married?”
I shrugged my shoulders.
“Thank goodness, no. I would have been able to offer my wife only the love and clear water that according to the saying nourish the world so incompletely.”
For once I was not lying.
I saw her smile.
She was nice to look at and my look rested with pleasure on her slightly large mouth, her dazzling teeth and her sombre eyes. At the same time, I admired the splendid cameo that she wore on her bodice and which I valued at over a hundred pounds.
“Tell me more about your cousin,” she said again, visibly regretting to have to lead our conversation into a different course.
“I will describe him to you. He thinks that he is handsome, but he is in fact deplorably ugly with his little hook-shaped moustache, his tufty reddish eyebrows and his horrible tinted glasses. He has been gaining weight... - and I cannot stand fat men - his hands are always dirty, as if he had just been sorting through an attic, and... and... he drinks!”
"And you,” said Miss Florence, smiling, “you are temperate, which accounts for your aversion, even though you lack a bit of charity there.”
"Should he drink whisky or even gin, like anybody else, that would still be acceptable, but he is never without a flat flask filled with Kirschwasser: how awful! And if only he stopped there... But no, we offend him by refusing to taste it, since it’s really the only thing he is keen to share with others. How he has made me suffer by imposing that atrocious drink on me!”
Miss Florence burst in laughter.
“You exaggerate! Even I will not say no to a small glass of lush fragrant kirsch.”
I frowned and put on a grieved look.
"Don’t be naughty,” she said gently. “One must not judge others too harshly; we must know how to pardon their little trespasses instead. Don’t you have your own?”
I looked directly into her eyes.
“I do, and not only little ones but also big ones, no longer trespasses but faults. First of all, I wish the dead to be honoured and not disturbed from their divine sleep by atrocious practices of witchcraft...”
“But that is not a fault!” cried out my new friend.
"Agreed, as long as one does not act like a drunken porter when what I consider as sacred law has been transgressed.”
“Would you be... a little... violent?”
“I am. More than once I have sent my fist to the nose of Alfred on account of that. You see, I am one to stand by his friends; mine being dead... I keep standing by them, dead as they are!”
I saw her lip tremble.
"Good Heavens!” she said slowly, “Dave, you are a man.”
I got up and waited for her to hold out her hand for me to clasp.
"Goodbye, Miss Bee,” I said. “I will talk to Alfred, but remember that I have no hold over him.”
“Why are you saying goodbye?”
I lowered my eyes; my mouth rehearsed its quick bitter contraction.
“Because... well, I don’t know. Goodbye!”
I went away in long strides, without looking back, and then I mounted my bicycle. Wheeling away, I kept my eye on the rear view mirror.
Miss Florence Bee, motionless against the fence, her hand resting on her chest, followed me with her look...
I needed a few days to fully perfect my plan and to get five or six pounds.
The bicycle belonged to Colson, Mivvins & Mivvins, but I sold my Shakespeare, a beautiful edition that I will regret all my life. I got two shillings from it, which I placed on Halifax, running at Norwood.
The devil must have been by my side, because the horse brought me ten pounds.
I had some trouble finding a flask of good Kirschwasser, a little less in obtaining prussic acid, since I had dabbled in that sort of thing during the war, as I believe I said before.
It was harder to find a hair dye that could give me a flaming red head of hair and that could be done away with by sleight of hand, but I succeeded.
A false moustache, a rather adequate but quite gaudy suit, glasses with tinted lenses, all that took only a few hours.
At school, I used to play impersonation parts in comedies and everybody said that I was intended for the theatre.
Life delights in turning prophecies into lies. I have since had a hundred jobs, never in acting.
That did not prevent the mirror from showing me the perfect image of Alfred Heavenrock. My calculations gave the moustached spectacled newly-born no more than twenty four hours of existence.
"Mr. Alfred Heavenrock,” said Miss Florence Bee, “I have known you instantly, from the precise description your cousin gave me.”
"Then he must have blackened my image,” I replied in a terrible croaking voice. “He would never do otherwise.”
