Maurice Level - Thirty Hours with a Corpse, and Other Tales of the Grand Guignol

“‘You can have me for your own…. You can take me and keep me…. I shall thrill to no other joy, faint under no other fondness… if only you will—’

“Once more I faltered: ‘You must not stay here…. Go away.’

“But the look spoke again:

“‘Soul without resolution… heart that dares not… what have you always longed for?… Look!… Chance changes your dream to reality.’

“The artery pulsed under my finger and, little by little, strive as I would to maintain it, the pressure diminished.

“She was close to me. She bent above me. Her breath played in my hair; the emanation from her body stole into every fiber of my being, impregnated my hands, my lips—that exhalation was madness to me.

“All conception of time, of danger, of duty, fled from my mind.

“Suddenly the door opened, and a servant appeared with my surgical case. The stupor was dispelled.

“‘Quick! Give it to me!’ I shouted rather than called.

“But then… I saw that my finger had deserted its post… that there was now no pulsation under it… that the stricken man’s lip was drawn upward into the mocking semblance of a smile… and… that it was all over.

“Our eyes met. And in that moment a shadow fell between us, a shadow with a mocking smile—the shadow of the dead man….

“I thought at first that this nightmare would fade away. I strove to assure myself that the fatal issue was an accident, unavoidable. But since she became my wife, that shadow is between us, always, everywhere. Neither speaks of it, but it comes between our meeting eyes.

“I—I see once more her eyes, the look, saying, ‘Take me. Let us be free.’ She—she sees once more my hand, as, by slow degrees, it lets the life of her husband ebb away. And hatred has come, a silent hatred, the hatred of two murderers who are in the bonds of a mutual fear.

“We remain for hours as you have seen us tonight. Words rush up within us, smite asunder the clenched teeth, half open the lips—and we keep silence.”

He took a dagger from the table, tried the edge with his finger.

“Cowards… both of us!”

He flung the weapon, clanging, to the table, and burying his face in his hands, burst into tears.

THE TRAIN hurtled through the black night toward the Swiss frontier. My three companions in the compartment, an elderly gentleman and a young couple, were not asleep. From time to time, the young woman, almost a girl, spoke a few words to the young man, who answered with a nod or a gesture. Then all would be silent again.

I suppose it is impossible for a man to get away from his profession. I was going to Switzerland on a much-needed vacation. Aside from my private practice as a physician, my services had been called for several times during the preceding months as medical expert for the Paris Police. Upon concluding my work on the last case, some hours before, I had thrown a few belongings into a bag and started off. Yet I found myself speculating as to the identities, background, and professions of those forced into almost intimate contact with me for the duration of the voyage, due to the division of a railroad car into compartments prevailing on European lines.

I dismissed the elderly gentleman very soon as an ordinary type; the sort of well-to-do old chap, retired from active business, that one might expect to find traveling for his pleasure in a first-class compartment. The girl was pretty, sweet, but obviously without individuality, for the present at least, for she was engrossed in her husband. I assumed that they were on a wedding trip.

The young man held my attention longer. He was a handsome fellow, perhaps thirty years old, solid yet dapper, with a fine, energetic face, soft eyes and an expression of gentleness that increased when he glanced at his beautiful companion. Thus far, beyond the banal words of politeness when adjusting baggage or shifting positions on the seats, there had been no conversation.

It was about two o’clock; the train passed by a small station without slowing. The lights flickered swiftly, darted through the windows, as our car jostled over turning plates. This jarring, this noise, aroused the girl, who had been drowsing. At her slight movement, the young man smiled, wiped the plate glass with the fingers of his gloved hand, leaned to peer out. But the station clock, the lamps, the name of the depot had flashed out of sight.

“Where are we, Jacques?” the young woman asked in a weary voice.

“I don’t know exactly,” he said, glancing at his watch. “Pontarlier is the next stop.”

“We’re not there yet,” the old gentleman said. He had been waiting for a chance to talk, to while away the minutes, and took the slight opportunity:

“We have not passed through the tunnel yet.”

“This trip is endless,” the girl sighed. “I can’t sleep. If only you had thought of buying papers or magazines—”

“Allow me?” the old gentleman said eagerly, holding out several newspapers.

She accepted with a grateful smile. Her husband drew a blanket over her knees, adjusted the lamp so that the light would be easier on her eyes. She opened one of the papers and soon was absorbed in what she was reading. The young man drew a cigarette case, which he snapped open and held out to his neighbor: “A cigarette, Monsieur?”

“With pleasure—”

“Really, I’m much obliged to you, sir. This trip is long and hard, especially for my wife who is not used to traveling at night.”

“Especially as day breaks so late at this season,” the old gentleman replied courteously. “So late it will be dark when we reach Vallorbe, where we must go through the customs. I take it you’re going to Italy?”

“My wife is not well, and the doctors have advised mountain air, so we’re going to Switzerland. However, if it is too cold up there, we shall go down to the lakes. She needs care, rest, and as for myself I’ve been so occupied in the past few weeks that I need a vacation.”

I refrained from smiling. There is something about travel in a compartment that renders men loquacious. Enough to give to an absolute stranger, whom one is not likely to meet again, information withheld from all but the most intimate friends at home. I knew it was inevitable that I should be drawn into the conversation, and wondered just how that would be effected.

Within a few minutes, the young woman dropped the paper.

“Nothing in all that,” she said with visible disappointment, adding in rapid apology to the kind old man, “I mean nothing on what I’m interested in. You see, I’m following that crime as one follows a fiction story—a mystery serial—”

“The murder in Pergolese Street?” the old gentleman asked, unwilling to drop the conversation.

“Yes, Monsieur. Isn’t it fascinating?”

“Extremely fascinating, yes—”

“I don’t see what’s so intriguing about it,” the husband said with a shrug.

“What’s intriguing?” she exclaimed. “Why, everything about it! The skull of the murderer, the mystery—the—well, everything—”

“I dare say.” The young man picked up a newspaper. He opened it and spoke without lifting his eyes: “But I don’t know anything about it, darling.”

“You don’t know? You read about it as I did. Remember, between the acts at the theatre, the other night? This morning, before we left—”

“Come!” He dropped the paper and looked at her in amazement. “Are you losing your mind? As long as I tell you I didn’t read it, it means I didn’t read it!”

I noted that this man, who appeared so soft and tender, was not patient and could not bear contradiction, for he uttered the words in a hard voice, almost harshly. His eyes, so caressing a moment before, suddenly turned to a sharp, blue glitter which embarrassed me. I thought I guessed his motive; his wife was nervous and he did not like to have her discuss such a gruesome subject with strangers. I could have told him that the best course would have been to humor her. He must have noticed my surprise, my instinct to give advice, for he resumed in a lighter tone: