The Count by Simon

[Calenture]

THE COUNT

by

Simon

IT happened some time ago, but I don't suppose that Spanish trains have improved much. In Spain the difference between an express and an ordinary train is that you pay a supplement on the express.

Well, my express rattled to a halt at every wayside platform, and stayed as long as dirty children thought that they could sell travellers squashed fruit offered on large leaves, or nasty little cakes held out in sticky hands. Evening began to draw in, and I thought wearily how many hours late the train could be before they gave up expecting us at the other end of the journey. Suddenly a guard was walking up and down one more of the dim wayside platforms shouting, "All change here, all change." I made inquiries, then began arguments. But neither availed. It appeared that the express often did give up the ghost at this little station, and happily resumed its journey in the morning. It was never, the guard assured me solemnly, more than one day late. I couldn't discover whether the engine-driver just got sleepy, or whether his best girl lived in the village. However, there was nothing else to do but to get out of the compartment and ask to be directed to the nearest hotel.

"Senor," said the guard, " there is no hotel in here."

I was too angry to be articulate, I merely said, '"Then what?"

The guard shrugged his shoulders. "Most of the through-travellers will stay with friends in the village. If they have not friends, they have friends of friends; or they have made friends during the journey.

"But," I replied, " I am a stranger. What can I do?"

"Ah! " he said, " if you are a stranger, it is so easy. All you have to do is to send your card to the Count."

Full of misgivings, I stumbled through the rubble which makes the approach from the railway station to rnost Spanish towns so forbidding. I found the cafe, ordered a sherry and declined a plate of mixed pieces of old sausage. Then I commenced to write my note to the Count, according to the guard's suggestion. I procured an envelope from the waiter; and, marvelling at my own audacity, dispatched, via a small boy, my letter. Two sherries later the boy returned. He brought me back my card on which some words had been penned in a new hand: the Count sent me his greetings, and begged me to stop the night at his villa.

It was a striking villa. It was near to being some of the things which one hopes Spain to be, but which it isn't. The butler, after I had shown him my card, on which the Count had written, was grave and courteous. He led me to a bedroom which was plainly and decently furnished. He said :

"Dinner has already been served, sir; but I am bringing you your meal on a tray."

When he left me, I looked appreciatively round the room which the Count had assigned to me. The windows were open, and a sultry breeze fanned my cheeks. I thought, knowing the mosquitoes of Spain (which resemble large and well-equipped armoured cars on wings), " How dangerous! " I stepped over
to the windows, and tried to pull them to; but I could not make them budge. The butler caught me struggling with them. He asked me, quite politely, what I thought I was doing. I explained about mosquitoes.

"Senor," he said, "you will not be troubled by those insects here."

"No? " I answered, " why not?"

"Because of an invention of the Count's, senor. I trust the dinner will be to your satisfaction. You will ring if you need anything?"

As I fell asleep that night I had the most ridiculous ideas. "Supposing," whispered some idiotic and drowsy section of my subconscious, "the windows are left open so that the Count can enter? Dracula was a count, wasn't he?" Then, as I drifted further towards oblivion, I thought, " What a thing to do to one's host—to drive a stake through his heart! And does even a stake through the heart keep a vampire quiet? Wasn't there the girl of Lewin who, when exhumed, was found to have chewed and swallowed one half of her face-cloth, which, on being pulled out of her throat, showed stains of blood. Wasn't a stake, therefore, driven through her breast? But didn't that wretched creature then walk abroad with the stake in her hand and kill quite a number cf people with this formidable weapon?"

In the morning I was conducted by the butler to the breakfast-room. There my fellow-guests were tucking in to coffee and snips of that delicious hot batter which is cooked in Spain, seemingly, in an endless rope. Two old ladies (whom I guessed at once to be French) had surrounded their plates with a number of tiny paper umbrellas; thereby giving to their simple meal the air of a doll-house festival. There was no sign of the Count. A wrinkled American, who was seated on my left, without any warning lent
towards me and said :

"I've been here a week. Yes, sir, I've been here a week, and I haven't once spoken to the Count. This Count bird will give any stranger who asks him a decent bed and free breakfast, and you can stay as long as your conscience will let you. But can you personally give the Count thanks for his hospitality? Oh dear, no! He's far too grand. He'll entertain the traveller, but he won't speak to him. I don't like it, sir. My name is Homer George, and I've been brought up to believe that one man is as good as another. If it wasn't for his excellent coffee, I'd say the Count was positively insulting."

I put on what I hope is an expression of severe reproof.

"If," I demanded,"it is so distasteful to you, why do you stay here?"

"Because," he replied, "because I believe that something funny is going on in this villa. I'm a man of public spirit. I want to find out what it is. I want to put anything crooked straight."

I pushed back my chair from the table, regretting that my gesture entailed sacrificing a second cup of coffee. "Mr. George, I shouldn't say that you are public-spirited, I should say that you are curious in rather a beastly manner."

I walked across the room and out on to a cool verandah. Oh dear! these Moorish gardens with their fountains and tiles. As soon as lady novelists see the tiles they cry, "How brilliant, my dear, to have blue tiles with this glorious blue sky!" But why do I think of—er—well . . . public baths? I closed my eyes against the offending tiles, and thought about the mysterious Count. As I lay in a convenient deck-chair thinking, a choking odour assailed me. I half opened my eyes, and found Homer George at my elbow puffing a vile cigar. I had forgotten how difficult it is to snub an American.

"Look here," said Mr. George, in no way abashed, "you're the first person who has turned up since I've been here who may be able to help me."

"Sir," I protested, " I have no intention of helping you."

"That's because you don't understand," he said. "These Spanish villages, they haven't got over the superstitions of the Dark Ages. Do you know why the peasants in these Catholic countries are so cruel to animals? The Catholic used to believe that he aided the Almighty in maltreating brutes. Devils, you see, although condemned to everlasting fire, did not begin their punishment in hell until after judgment day. In the meantime they roamed the earth tempting men. But, with their numbers being constantly added to, the number of devils on the earth became a problem for the ecclesiastical fathers. Finally, they made the extra room for them by deciding that the devils who had no room to go elsewhere went into the bodies of animals. So the Catholic thought that when the dog howled and the butchered pig squealed, it was the embodied demon who really suffered."

I confess I was surprised at this long and somewhat erudite speech. "But why do you tell me all this," I asked.

"Because I have been poking around the village, making a friend here and a friend there. From what they have told me I have been able to patch together a very queer story—a story of something that could only have happened in a Spanish village like this which is still under the shadow of mediaeval superstition. . . . Now, all I want is for you to help me one night. I know the room in which the Count works, and I know how the window of that room can be reached by a balcony. I will be quite satisfied if I can get one look through the window—oh yes! I have watched the lights in that room, from the garden, far into the morning. But I must have a witness in case something goes wrong. I mean . . . if anything goes wrong. . . a companion is a help, isn't he?"

I refused blankly, Homer George continued as though there had been no interruption. "You can make up your mind after you have heard. . . . When the Count came into his title he had his predecessor exhumed. He dressed the corpse in its best clothes and issued a writ against it, for unlawful and extravagant management of the estate. No legal formality was omitted, and a lawyer was appointed to defend the accused. The instant sentence was pronounced, the corpse was stripped of its clothes and . . . and mutilated. Of course it all happened very much as if it were between friends. The lawyers were local men who had to humour the Count if they wished to make their livelihood in the district. The police? corrupt . . . and bribed. But the Count. . . .! A man who could do such a thing is capable of any inhumanity. Now do you see why I want to look into the Count's workroom and check up on what our elusive host does in the night?"

[Calenture]

"'See this automatic?'"

Drawing by Norman Keene

2

We tiptoed down the passage which led from my room, and Homer George paused when we reached the corner. He took two steps forward, and then he peered to the left and the right. Then he beckoned me to follow him. He opened a door, and my heart was in my mouth. But nobody accosted us. He led me through an empty picture-gallery. At the end of the gallery he turned towards a window; fumbled with a catch ; and threw it open. I began to realise what an efficient amateur detective Homer George was. He must, before I had arrived, have put in a good deal of time snooping around the house.

On the balcony outside the window the moonlight streamed down on us. Again I felt afraid. I thought of my dream idea about the Count being a vampire. Better a vampire than an enraged aristocrat whose hospitality had been outraged ! But I had little time for such grim speculations, for my companion crouched and ran. A second later we had reached the corner of the house where the balcony turned into shadow. Chinks of bright light fell from between heavy curtains drawn behind a great window. I could hear my companion breathing heavily. It may have been from the exertion of running, or it may have been that he was frightened now that the moment had come. But he moved forward resolutely, and bent to put his eye to the largest crack in the curtains. At the same instant the curtains were snatched apart, and a man with a high-domed forehead stood framed in the window. Dramatically, he stood there while I counted ten. Then he flung open the window.

"Come in, gentlemen, I have been expecting you. One of my servants heard you making your plans on the verandah this morning. You know how servants will talk? " He spoke calm and fluent English.

Homer George, now that he was trapped, lost his nerve. He stood, positively shivering with fright.

"Come, Sir," pressed the Count, " it was you gentlemen who wished to pay a call on me." He stretched out his arm in a kind of mock invitation.

My companion misunderstood the gesture. He leapt back, and leapt too far. He staggered against the parapet. His arms shot above his head. He gave a cry, and crashed into the courtyard below.

The Count walked to the balustrade, and gazed down. "Too bad," he said, coolly.

"But," I stammered, " we must go down and help."

"Help? My dear man, see his scattered brains! My servant will arrange everything, even to cleaning my nice blue tiles. Or are you interested in the casual connection between cranial capacity and mental capacity'. I admit I am extremely interested in the argument against the higher education of women which is based on the fact that the average female brain weighs only 1272 grammes. Surely a person with such a light encephalon cannot be receptive of the higher branches of study. Ah ! but I forget that you English think we are very backward about . . . about our ideas: the social status of women, the Church, and so on."

He had been speaking quickly, as if he would cover up the fact that he had been manoeuvring me into his room. He shut the window behind him, and drew the curtains. I found myself in an immense apartment. In the centre of the chamber were some chairs and an enormous desk. Two of the walls were covered by rows of bookshelves. One spacious corner of the room had been fitted up as a laboratory.

"I'm afraid," he said, " that it has the air of being the room of an amateur chemist. But in this room I have made several of my small discoveries. In this room I have pushed my great research to its—yes, I think I may say so—triumphant conclusion. I have managed to isolate a certain bacillus. It's a strange microbe, my friend. It turns gelatine black, and admits a fetid stench. . . . But I must offer you refreshment. Won't you sit down there, near the desk? And I will ring for the servants."

The butler answered the bell, and the Count said, "Refreshments for one, please."

The butler returned bearing a tray on which were arranged bottles and glasses. He was followed by a second man-servant, who carried a tray of sandwiches. The trays were placed on the desk. The servants retreated. As they passed me. . . It happened in an instant. It could not have been more neatly done. I was taken completely off my guard.

The Count smiled, softly. " Yes, I fear the refreshment is for me. To-night I shall stay up very late, my friend, watching your reactions. . . . If you start screaming, we will have to gag you. You won't help yourself that way. . . . I must remind you that you thrust your company on me. You and your American friend decided to take an interest in my experiments. Now I am going to talk to you about them. The microbe I have isolated . . . ah! I wish I had time to show it to you through the microscope. There are two little feelers which might be horns, and something that looks suspiciously like a tail. You sneer? That is because, my friend, you are too proud for the yoke of Mother Church. What do you think went into the Gadarene swine ? At last I have isolated the bacillus infernalis. Science is vain unless it helps man to salvation. Evil a microbe! Don't you see what it means to have discovered the most insidious disguise of the devil. . . . Still you laugh? Perhaps that is well, for you won't object, then, to having a few of these microbes injected into your blood-stream? . . . Don't wriggle. . . . Mario, just bare his arm. . . . All over, my good friend. . . . See this automatic ? I shall sit this side of the desk watching you. All I wish is to observe symptoms. I give you my word, as a gentleman of Spain, that nothing more will happen to you. Just sit still, be reasonable and let my servants go to bed . . . . Mario and Alfonso, you may go. I feel certain my guest is going to be reasonable. . . . Supposing you did escape;
is there a doctor in the world who could help you ? Surely the doctor in our little village would not be prepared to administer an anti-toxin for the bacillus infernalis? But you will not escape. If you try to leave this room I will shoot you, without compunction, for I have warned you. You may guess that I am a
man of my word, yes? Police? I shall tell them that you and your American were robbers. I have great power in this district. . . ."

His eyes glittered with a certain madness, and they seemed to hypnotise me. I remember very little of that night. But I remember how, whenever his attention was partly turned from me, I managed to coax with the tips of my fingers the paper-weight on the desk a little nearer.

I remember that, when some night creature flew against the window, the Count looked for an instant behind him, and in that instant I had seized and hurled the paper-weight.

I remember how I picked up a sharp knife, scalped, and opened the cranium.

I remember taking slime in my hands. Yes, yes, I remember that I found that his brains weighed less than a woman's!

I remember how they discovered me, in the morning, writing out a statement of how the Count was unfitted for the higher education.

I remember how they discovered me and brought me to the home. . . .

I have been in the home a long time now.

Do you know, I really believe they will send me mad here.

*

This story was first published in John Gawforth's Thrills (1936) and we discussed it here.