Chapter 8
It was not from potential disgust but from sheer terror that I decided not to pay my sixth visit. The minutes I spent with Emma Deligny left me not so much with a vivid impression of horror but of cumulative horror, of Carla's life going in a determined line toward greater and greater perversion-ending in death by perversion.
And I felt that the sixth name on Carla's list might involve personal danger to myself. So it was with a sense of terror and uncertainty that I told myself I would not make the final call. Still, the problem turned itself over and over in my mind, and by the time I thought my decision definite, I was once more thrust into doubt by finding the newspaper which had first told me of Carla's death.
That night I dreamed about her, but this dream was altogether different from the other, the one that had come to me at the first stages of my quest. In this one, Carla wept. Nothing existed but her weeping.
I said: Why are you crying? But she wouldn't reply. Instinctively I realized the nature of her problem. She was dead. That one particular aspect of her life-its end-remained for me a mystery.
When I woke, I knew there was no alternative. And so, that very day I rode upon a plane, a train, and a bus; and at four in the afternoon I descended into the marketplace of Naire, a small village not an hour away from the Spanish border. I left my bag in the hamlet's only hotel, and asked the proprietor where I might find the Villa des Fleurs.
"Are you going up there?" he asked me.
"Yes."
"It will be no use. He sees no one."
"Who are you talking about."
"Well, the master of the villa: Monsieur Montrose." That was the name on Carla's list: Serge Montrose. 'Yes," I said to the proprietor. "That's who I'm going to see."
"He won't see you. The servants will never let you through the gate."
"Nevertheless, I'll try."
He shrugged and indicated the small road that led out of the village. There was no way to Montrose's place except by foot, and since it was a good climb, I started out at once. It was a beautiful walk, and I could see the villa itself a half-hour before I reached it. Placed like a citadel on a sloping hill, its view governed the village.
The house was well-named, for flowers lay everywhere around it. When I approached the gate, I admired the well-kept lawn, then pulled at the bell. A servant-girl opened the front door, came down to me, but kept the gate locked between us.
"Yes?" she asked.
"I've come to see Monsieur Montrose."
"I'm 'sorry, but Monsieur Montrose sees no one."
"He may be willing to see me. Will you tell him that Howard Cunningham, an American friend of Carla, would like to have a few words with him?"
"I'm sorry but-"
"Please ask him!"
She turned and went back into the house, leaving the door open behind her. I was kept waiting a considerable time before I saw anyone come back into the doorway. And this time, it was not the girl but an enormous old man. His bulk hung on the threshold. His fat face bore a huge white beard and where he wasn't bald his hair was white and long.
"What do you want?" he roared at me across the distance.
"Are you Montrose."
"Why do you want to know."
"I come at the request of Carla."
"She's dead."
I nodded, but decided to be silent and wait for his move. His accent had surprised me, for although he bore a French name he did not have a French accent. And also there was something about his presence that brought a memory to mind.
"I won't see you," he shouted. "Go back where you came from."
On a wild hunch, I yelled back at him: "If I leave without seeing you, you'll have reason to regret it, Baron Avron."
He came straight down the path and opened the gate for me.
"She told you?" he hissed at me. "Yes," I lied.
We looked at each other with equal amounts of disgust.
"If she weren't already dead," he said, "I would kill her again."
"Again?" The word shook me, but did not noticeably disturb him.
"How much do you want?" he said coldly. "I don't want anything from you."
"What have you come here for."
"To find Carla's murderer."
"Murderer," he said with a sneer. "There was no murder involved. It was a pleasure for both of us."
"Especially for her, I suppose."
He had moved away from the gate and dropped his huge body into a chair on the lawn. I sat down beside him.
"She told you about our arrangement?" he asked me.
"No."
"Then how did you know-"
I thought more quickly than I ever had. "She left me a letter before her death." This was as ambiguous as I could make it.
"I'll tell you then, Mr. Cunningham, that twenty years ago I was going to kill her. She begged me not to because of our child, but since I could no longer bear living with her, and since I couldn't face the disgrace of a public separation, it was decided that I would be the one to 'die'. In exchange for thus I would have the honor of killing her in my own fashion on her fortieth birthday. So my death took place. I bought new papers, a new identity, and this villa where I spend only part of my time. I make frequent visits to other places-in fact, during the past twenty years I've made frequent visits to Carla. She even told me of her love for you. Love for you! No one in all these past twenty years has ever done for Carla what I could do, what I did do, from the night we married to the night she died."
"I want you to tell me about her death."
"And then you'll tell the police?"
"No. You'll tell them."
"I'll make a deal with you, Cunningham. I'll tell you about Carla's death, but in exchange for it you'll let me destroy myself. You won't tell the police."
"I can't agree. You seem to be an expert at living after death."
"You can take my word. Accept my deal, not for my sake but for the sake of my name-and for the daughter."
I felt no sympathy at all for him, but I thought that it would, should I not accept his offer, only mean useless pain for Angela.
"All right I agree," I told him.
"Good. I am grateful."
"Never mind your gratitude. Tell me about the murder."
"It was simple. The arrangement had been that on her fortieth birthday, Carla would take a room at a certain hotel whose owner was well paid for his silence. Soon after she entered the room, I followed her with the curious alcohol burner that the police discovered. I also brought with me the penis in which Carla rejoiced and an enormous iron rod. I lit the alcohol burner and placed the rod on top of it to heat.
"We undressed. Carla had grown lovelier with every year. Maturity had brought to her body anything it might have lacked in youth Who has seen anything as superb as those ever-swelling breasts that bloomed out, round, firm, yielding? I stroked her nipples, feeling them stiffen in my fingers. Throwing her to her knees, I forced my member into her mouth; it was an easy task for her to take all of it-an easy and delightful one. Her. plump lips pressed upon it; her moist tongue licked it; the flesh of her mouth yielded its heat to my stiffness. Then she licked at my balls, her tongue flickering at my sack.
"She lay down upon the floor and I joined her, pushing my face into that oily groove I knew so well. I rubbed it with my heard, then put my tongue to it, sliding along the length of the crack, tickling her clitoris, plunging into the wide, expectant hole.
"'Your moment has come,' I said.
"'Hurry. I can't wait."
"Even the prospect of death was not enough to lessen her excitement
"Her knees drew back and I came between the thighs. My phallus was at her door. I tapped gently, entered slightly, drew back, entered again, withdrew again. Her hole twitched for my full penetration, and at last I lowered myself, easing my member into the depths of her body. Her mouth dribbled with her passion. She clutched at me and we drove at each other fiercely, my tool pounding her.
"I sensed the approach of her climax and turned so that we lay on our sides. While she shook with rapture I reached up and took hold of the end of the rod that was upon the alcohol burner. Half of it was red-hot. I removed it and at the same instant I turned myself so that Carla lay above me. My free hand spread her buttocks, found her anus, stretched with anticipation. In a frenzy she shook all over me, bringing us closer to our orgasm. Then, holding the rod tight, I plunged it downward, never hesitating as it drove into Carla. At that instant our juices were mingling, and the smell of burning flesh added to my pleasure.
"Whether Carla's pleasure was greater or less, I cannot say, for when I pushed her away, she was already dead. And I could not resist having her once more, plunging myself into the growing coolness of her body.
"Afterwards I dressed, gave some more money to the owner of the hotel, and took the next train south."
My face must have been full of disgust because he said: "No, don't look at me that way. How easy it would have been for Carla to tell the police or anyone, in fact, about our rendezvous. How easy it would have been for her to prevent her death. But you must see, Mr. Cunningham, she wanted it to happen. She wanted to know, while at the height of her full sexual powers, what it would be like to know death in the midst of life's greatest pleasure. She has learned: at her own consent."
Clearly, he was right, but nonetheless as maniacal as she had been: as she had always been, for even in the moments of our love, she must have known that one day she would submit herself to this outrageous experiment-he was equally mad.
"Still," I said to him. "I hold you to our agreement. Either you kill yourself or I turn you over to the police."
"Must I do it at once?"
"At once!"
Groaning, he raised his bulk from the chair and walked up the path and into the .house. I couldn't bring myself to follow him, and besides I didn't really doubt he would carry out the agreement.
I left my chair and walked to the gate. But as I opened it, I heard him shout:
"Mr. Cunningham!"
I looked toward the house. He was at a window on the upper floor.
"It is a pity," he shouted down to me, "that death could not be as interesting for everyone as it was for you."
I could say nothing. I felt like a murderer-and yet this was for Arvon the lesser of two evils. I was wrong to seat myself in judgment upon him, but how could I say-well, all right, you old madman, go on living, go on killing madwomen? I would have to tell the police, and in doing that, I would harm the most innocent creature of all: Angela. For, after all, she would be the one to suffer.
Arvon disappeared from the window and returned an instant later with a gun in his hand. For a moment, I thought he might take aim at me. But at last he raised it to his own temple.
"Goodbye," he shouted. "I am truly sorry to have had so much more of it than you."
I wanted to shout stop, but instead I lowered my eyes, and waited for the report. The blast was brief and much less noisy than I had expected. When I looked up I saw the enormous man swaying forward, bending deeply. And then he fell from the window, broke through space, and crashed into a circle of flowers at the back of the lawn.
Servants appeared from everywhere, some of them shrieking. I thought it best to slip away quietly, but then the maid who had come to the gate earlier saw me.
"What happened?" she shouted with horror.
"It was an accident."
"An accident?"
"Yes, he was going to show me that gun he has there. He lifted it to his temple jokingly. Apparently, he didn't know it was loaded. It went off, and he fell out the window."
"How terrible," they all agreed, and told me he was the kindest and most generous of masters.
"Still," I consoled them, "he didn't know what was happening. None of us could ask for a faster end."
They telephoned for the police who, upon arriving, told me I'd have to stay for the inquest. This required that I spend two more days in Naire where there was absolutely nothing to do. I walked and talked to some of the locals who had rather a dread of me as if I were a murderer.
At the inquest I repeated my story and I think that no one really believed me. They all felt-although they never indicated this by word-that I was responsible for Arvon's (or Montrose's) death. The circumstances were strange enough: I appeared in Naire, to which strangers rarely come; I was admitted to the Montrose Villa, to which no one was allowed; and within two hours of all this an old, cold, but respectable man dies.
In any case, the verdict brought in was accidental death. Obviously, the town would have preferred murder or suicide under compulsion or even suicide. But it was accidental death.
I left Naire twenty minutes after the verdict was announced and was back in Paris during the middle of the night. It was all over, I told myself as I shredded Carla's list and threw the pieces away. There was only one more visit to be made.
And I was certain that one would be pleasant.