“Good luck,” he said. The look on his wrecked face robbed the words of
their pathos.
“Thanks,” I forced myself to say. “I don’t blame you, Jack, for what’s
happened. I—I’d have done the same.”
I left him there, slumped on the couch, staring after me with eyes that
had looked into hell.
* * * * *
It was past daylight when I drove out of Culver City, a long,
razor-edged knife hidden securely inside my coat. And the day went past
all too quickly. A telephone call told me that Jean had not yet returned
home. It took me more than an hour to locate a certain man I wanted—a
man who had worked for the studio before on certain delicate jobs. There
was little about locks he did not know, as the police had sometimes
ruefully admitted.
His name was Axel Ferguson, a bulky, good-natured Swede, whose thick
fingers seemed more adapted to handling a shovel than the mechanisms of
locks. Yet he was as expert as Houdini—indeed, he had at one time been
a professional magician.
The front door of Futaine’s isolated canyon home proved no bar to
Ferguson’s fingers and the tiny sliver of steel he used. The house, a
modern two-story place, seemed deserted. But Hardy had said _below_ the
house.
We went down the cellar stairs and found ourselves in a concrete-lined
passage that ran down at a slight angle for perhaps thirty feet. There
the corridor ended in what seemed to be a blank wall of bluish steel.
The glossy surface of the door was unbroken, save for a single keyhole.
Ferguson set to work. At first he hummed under his breath, but after a
time he worked in silence. Sweat began to glisten on his face.
Trepidation assailed me as I watched.
The flashlight he had placed beside him grew dim. He inserted another
battery, got out unfamiliar-looking apparatus. He buckled on dark
goggles, and handed me a pair. A blue, intensely brilliant flame began
to play on the door.
It was useless. The torch was discarded after a time, and Ferguson
returned to his tools. He was using a stethoscope, taking infinite pains
in the delicate movements of his hands.
It was fascinating to watch him. But all the time I realized that the
night was coming, that presently the sun would go down, and that the
life of the vampire lasts from sunset to sunrise.
At last Ferguson gave up. “I can’t do it,” he told me, panting as though
from a hard race. “And if I can’t, nobody can. Even Houdini couldn’t
have broken this lock. The only thing that’ll open it is the key.”
“All right, Axel,” I said dully. “Here’s your money.”
He hesitated, watching me. “You going to stay here, Mr. Prescott?”
“Yeah,” I said. “You can find your way out. I’ll—wait awhile.”
“Well, I’ll leave the light with you,” he said. “You can let me have it
sometime, eh?”
He waited, and, as I made no answer, he departed, shaking his head.
Then utter silence closed around me. I took the knife out of my coat,
tested its edge against my thumb, and settled back to wait.
Less than half an hour later the steel door began to swing open. I stood
up. Through the widening crack I saw a bare, steel-lined chamber, empty
save for a long, black object that rested on the floor. It was a coffin.
The door was wide. Into view moved a white, slender figure—Jean, clad
in a diaphanous, silken robe. Her eyes were wide, fixed and staring. She
looked like a sleep-walker.
A man followed her—a man wearing impeccable evening clothes. Not a hair
was out of place on his sleek blond head, and he was touching his lips
delicately with a handkerchief as he came out of the vault.
There was a little crimson stain on the white linen where his lips had
brushed.
_4. I, the Vampire_
Jean walked past me as though I didn’t exist. But the Chevalier Futaine
paused, his eyebrows lifted. His black eyes pierced through me.
The handle of the knife was hot in my hand. I moved aside to block
Futaine’s way. Behind me came a rustle of silk, and from the corner of
my eye I saw Jean pause hesitatingly.
The Chevalier eyed me, toying negligently with his handkerchief. “Mart,”
he said slowly. “Mart Prescott.” His eyes flickered toward the knife,
and a little smile touched his lips.