was empty, glistening under the streetlights.
David felt a gust of cold air tug at the collar of his shirt. Behind him he heard the sound of splintering wood. He thought nothing of it. But unconsciously he quickened his pace.
The road continued up to a set of traffic lights. This was where Regent’s Park began—David could see it in the distance, a seemingly endless black space. He glanced behind him. Although the pavement had been empty before, there was now a single figure, staggering about as if drunk. It was a man, wearing some sort of uniform and boots. He was weaving small circles on the pavement, his arms outstretched, his feet jerking into the air. It was as if he had never walked before, as if he were trying to get his balance.
David turned the corner, leaving the drunk—if that was what he was—behind. He was beginning to feel uneasy but he still didn’t know why.
The path he was following crossed a main road and then continued over a humpback bridge. Suddenly he was out of the hubbub of London. The darkness and emptiness of Regent’s Park was all around him, enclosing him in its ancient arms. Somewhere a dog barked in the night.
“Just slow down . . .”
He muttered the words to himself, somehow relieved to hear the sound of his own voice. Once again he looked at his watch. A quarter to twelve. Plenty of time. How had he allowed one crazy drunk to spook him like this? Smiling, he looked back over his shoulder.
The smile died on his lips.
The man had followed him into the park. He was standing on the bridge now, lit by a lamp directly above him. In the last few minutes he had learned how to walk properly and he was standing at attention, his eyes glittering in the light. He was much closer and David could see him clearly—the brown boots, the belt, the strap running across his chest. He wasn’t wearing a uniform but a sort of brown suit, the pants ballooning out at the thighs. David recognized him instantly. He would have known even without the black swastika on the red-and-white armband on the man’s right arm. How could he fail to recognize the thin black hair sweeping down over the pale face and, of course, the famous mustache?
Adolf Hitler!
Or at least, Adolf Hitler’s waxwork.
David remembered the gust of cold air he had felt. There was always a touch of coldness in the air when black magic was being performed and the blacker the spell the more intense the coldness. He had felt it but he had ignored it. And the splintering sound! The creature must have broken the door to get out. Who could have animated it? Vincent? David stared at the Hitler waxwork, feeling sick. And even as he backed away, a horrible thought occurred to him. Hitler had been first out of Madame Tussauds. But was he alone?
The question was answered a second later. The Hitler waxwork jerked forward, his legs jackknifing in the air. Behind him, two more figures appeared, rising like zombies over the top of the humpback bridge. David didn’t wait to see who they might be. Three words were echoing in his mind.
Chamber of Horrors.
He tried to remember who was exhibited in that part of Madame Tussauds. He had a nasty feeling he might be meeting them at any moment.
David turned and ran. But it was only now that he saw how carefully the trap had been laid. Three more waxworks had made their way into the park and were approaching him from the other direction. One was dressed only in a dirty white nightgown and black clogs. It was carrying something in its hands. David stared. It was a victim of the French Revolution. It was carrying its head! Behind it came two short men in prison uniforms. David didn’t recognize either of them—but they had recognized him. Their eyes seemed to light up as they shuffled forward, arms outstretched. David saw a gate in the fence, half open. He ran through it and into the inner heart of the park.
He found himself on a patch of lawn with a set of tennis courts to one side and an unpleasant,
David felt a gust of cold air tug at the collar of his shirt. Behind him he heard the sound of splintering wood. He thought nothing of it. But unconsciously he quickened his pace.
The road continued up to a set of traffic lights. This was where Regent’s Park began—David could see it in the distance, a seemingly endless black space. He glanced behind him. Although the pavement had been empty before, there was now a single figure, staggering about as if drunk. It was a man, wearing some sort of uniform and boots. He was weaving small circles on the pavement, his arms outstretched, his feet jerking into the air. It was as if he had never walked before, as if he were trying to get his balance.
David turned the corner, leaving the drunk—if that was what he was—behind. He was beginning to feel uneasy but he still didn’t know why.
The path he was following crossed a main road and then continued over a humpback bridge. Suddenly he was out of the hubbub of London. The darkness and emptiness of Regent’s Park was all around him, enclosing him in its ancient arms. Somewhere a dog barked in the night.
“Just slow down . . .”
He muttered the words to himself, somehow relieved to hear the sound of his own voice. Once again he looked at his watch. A quarter to twelve. Plenty of time. How had he allowed one crazy drunk to spook him like this? Smiling, he looked back over his shoulder.
The smile died on his lips.
The man had followed him into the park. He was standing on the bridge now, lit by a lamp directly above him. In the last few minutes he had learned how to walk properly and he was standing at attention, his eyes glittering in the light. He was much closer and David could see him clearly—the brown boots, the belt, the strap running across his chest. He wasn’t wearing a uniform but a sort of brown suit, the pants ballooning out at the thighs. David recognized him instantly. He would have known even without the black swastika on the red-and-white armband on the man’s right arm. How could he fail to recognize the thin black hair sweeping down over the pale face and, of course, the famous mustache?
Adolf Hitler!
Or at least, Adolf Hitler’s waxwork.
David remembered the gust of cold air he had felt. There was always a touch of coldness in the air when black magic was being performed and the blacker the spell the more intense the coldness. He had felt it but he had ignored it. And the splintering sound! The creature must have broken the door to get out. Who could have animated it? Vincent? David stared at the Hitler waxwork, feeling sick. And even as he backed away, a horrible thought occurred to him. Hitler had been first out of Madame Tussauds. But was he alone?
The question was answered a second later. The Hitler waxwork jerked forward, his legs jackknifing in the air. Behind him, two more figures appeared, rising like zombies over the top of the humpback bridge. David didn’t wait to see who they might be. Three words were echoing in his mind.
Chamber of Horrors.
He tried to remember who was exhibited in that part of Madame Tussauds. He had a nasty feeling he might be meeting them at any moment.
David turned and ran. But it was only now that he saw how carefully the trap had been laid. Three more waxworks had made their way into the park and were approaching him from the other direction. One was dressed only in a dirty white nightgown and black clogs. It was carrying something in its hands. David stared. It was a victim of the French Revolution. It was carrying its head! Behind it came two short men in prison uniforms. David didn’t recognize either of them—but they had recognized him. Their eyes seemed to light up as they shuffled forward, arms outstretched. David saw a gate in the fence, half open. He ran through it and into the inner heart of the park.
He found himself on a patch of lawn with a set of tennis courts to one side and an unpleasant,
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