Professor Stevens. Stevens had come back to save her. Had he remained on the mainland, he’d still be alive. So why did she feel bad for Talbot and not for him? And why did she actually believe the most fantastic thing Talbot had said?
I must never live again.
How could he live again? He was dead. So were Professor Stevens and Dr. Mornay, though they were truly dead. Or were they? It was all too much to assimilate.
Joan didn’t understand what she’d seen, and she still didn’t believe she’d actually seen much of it. But Talbot had believed. And if nothing else, she had promised that no one would ever find his body. She would keep that promise.
Joan had heard enough lame alibis in the course of her career to be able to create better ones. She considered what she must do. She’d telephone the police and tell them that Professor Stevens had been murdered by a madman named Count Dracula. Dracula had also attacked Dr. Mornay before he left the island—left it in a motorboat, she suspected. She heard it leave. Maybe he’d set fire to the pier to try to prevent any other boats from pursuing. Lawrence Talbot? She had no idea what happened to him after their brief encounter at the ball. As for Chick Young and Wilbur Grey, if they were foolish enough to tell what had really happened here, it would only legitimize her own story. No one would believe them.
Poor men, she thought. They really were innocent victims caught in the scheme of Count Dracula.
Young and Grey had said there was a basement in the castle. Joan began opening doors around the foyer until she found it. The torchlit wooden staircase led to a grotto, which had probably been constructed by the original Dr. Mornay to allow secret access to the sea. It was a clever and convenient way to dispose of failed experiments, Joan thought. As she walked cautiously down the steep stairs, looking for a place to conceal the body, she leaned on the moldy walls for support. At the first landing she nearly lost her balance as the wall turned inward. She gasped as it revealed a hidden chamber. She looked inside. There was a heavy wooden chair against one wall and a grate in the floor. A choking, sulfurous smell rose from the pit beneath the grate. Whatever unspeakable activities had taken place here, the room would serve only one purpose henceforth. It would provide Lawrence Talbot with a suitable tomb.
Returning to the foyer, Joan picked up her shawl, grabbed the shoulders of Talbot’s shirt, and began pulling him across the smooth stones. His body left a long red smear in its wake. The young woman looked away. She knew she’d think of Talbot often after tonight, and she didn’t want to think of him dead. She wanted to picture him savoring that moment of death—not happy, but at least at peace.
At the top of the steps, Joan picked him up under the arms and backed down ahead of him. She wanted to lend some measure of dignity to his final descent. Upon reaching the secret room, she lay him on his back on the cold, damp floor. After wiping her bloody hands on her shawl, she closed the revolving section of wall. Then she looked back at the wall and touched it.
She thought of the race she’d been running for seven years. The race to build a career. Pretending to be someone’s daughter or secretary or long-lost relative or, most recently, Wilbur Grey’s lover. Then she thought of the race Lawrence Talbot had run. Pursuing Count Dracula around the world. The depression brought on by his failure. The passion he harbored for his own destruction and the pleasure he experienced when he succeeded. Her own goals and achievements seemed mundane by comparison. Though Joan had not known Lawrence Talbot before this evening, and she had not known him for very long, she knew that the encounter would change her life.
Slowly, she walked back up the damp, slippery stairs. She used her shawl to wipe Talbot’s blood from the floor. When she was finished, she took a poker from the
I must never live again.
How could he live again? He was dead. So were Professor Stevens and Dr. Mornay, though they were truly dead. Or were they? It was all too much to assimilate.
Joan didn’t understand what she’d seen, and she still didn’t believe she’d actually seen much of it. But Talbot had believed. And if nothing else, she had promised that no one would ever find his body. She would keep that promise.
Joan had heard enough lame alibis in the course of her career to be able to create better ones. She considered what she must do. She’d telephone the police and tell them that Professor Stevens had been murdered by a madman named Count Dracula. Dracula had also attacked Dr. Mornay before he left the island—left it in a motorboat, she suspected. She heard it leave. Maybe he’d set fire to the pier to try to prevent any other boats from pursuing. Lawrence Talbot? She had no idea what happened to him after their brief encounter at the ball. As for Chick Young and Wilbur Grey, if they were foolish enough to tell what had really happened here, it would only legitimize her own story. No one would believe them.
Poor men, she thought. They really were innocent victims caught in the scheme of Count Dracula.
Young and Grey had said there was a basement in the castle. Joan began opening doors around the foyer until she found it. The torchlit wooden staircase led to a grotto, which had probably been constructed by the original Dr. Mornay to allow secret access to the sea. It was a clever and convenient way to dispose of failed experiments, Joan thought. As she walked cautiously down the steep stairs, looking for a place to conceal the body, she leaned on the moldy walls for support. At the first landing she nearly lost her balance as the wall turned inward. She gasped as it revealed a hidden chamber. She looked inside. There was a heavy wooden chair against one wall and a grate in the floor. A choking, sulfurous smell rose from the pit beneath the grate. Whatever unspeakable activities had taken place here, the room would serve only one purpose henceforth. It would provide Lawrence Talbot with a suitable tomb.
Returning to the foyer, Joan picked up her shawl, grabbed the shoulders of Talbot’s shirt, and began pulling him across the smooth stones. His body left a long red smear in its wake. The young woman looked away. She knew she’d think of Talbot often after tonight, and she didn’t want to think of him dead. She wanted to picture him savoring that moment of death—not happy, but at least at peace.
At the top of the steps, Joan picked him up under the arms and backed down ahead of him. She wanted to lend some measure of dignity to his final descent. Upon reaching the secret room, she lay him on his back on the cold, damp floor. After wiping her bloody hands on her shawl, she closed the revolving section of wall. Then she looked back at the wall and touched it.
She thought of the race she’d been running for seven years. The race to build a career. Pretending to be someone’s daughter or secretary or long-lost relative or, most recently, Wilbur Grey’s lover. Then she thought of the race Lawrence Talbot had run. Pursuing Count Dracula around the world. The depression brought on by his failure. The passion he harbored for his own destruction and the pleasure he experienced when he succeeded. Her own goals and achievements seemed mundane by comparison. Though Joan had not known Lawrence Talbot before this evening, and she had not known him for very long, she knew that the encounter would change her life.
Slowly, she walked back up the damp, slippery stairs. She used her shawl to wipe Talbot’s blood from the floor. When she was finished, she took a poker from the
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