The White Hands and Other Weird Tales by Mark Samuels Page B

manner.
    The man turned his gaze towards Pieter and tried very hard to keep it level. Then he laughed, a mocking chuckle, as if enjoying a private joke.
    ‘You are kind, yes. I will drink with you.’
    He swallowed the brandy as if suffering from a terrible thirst, but the alcohol had little visible effect on him. Despite Slokker’s questions, the man seemed disinclined to speak. The medical student could do little but sit and watch his silent guest, though he was filled with unease at his presence. There was something truly unearthly about the man.
    Occasionally, as the night wore on, he seemed on the verge of revealing something about himself, but would then lapse back into staring into space, occasionally laughing as if at the same sick joke. Any suggestion Slokker made to the effect that the visitor should leave was accompanied by renewed pleas of a piteous nature and he was forced to resign himself to the strange companionship.
    Finally, just as dawn was breaking, the visitor made to depart and Slokker watched him as he staggered back along the corridor. To his surprise and interest, the man entered an apartment only four doors away. Had he tried the three doors separating them before hammering on Slokker’s?
    As he wearily relocked his door and returned to bed Slokker resolved to discuss the matter with the concierge later in the morning. His strange neighbour required prompt attention, and possibly commitment to a psychiatric hospital. And Pieter would be very glad to do without any further nocturnal visits.
     
    ***
     
    The concierge, who was an elderly man with a dislike of Flemish Belgians, ran his fingers over the white stubble on his chin. An unlit Gauloise hung from his lower lip.  
    ‘He came from Apartment 205, you say?’
    ‘Yes. I don’t know his name. The man’s in need of treatment. I think he could be dangerous; to himself, if not to others.’
    ‘I find that hard to believe. The gentleman who occupies that room is Monsieur Deschamps. A little odd, I’ll grant you, but he’s careful about his appearance and always gives me a good tip. I haven’t seen him for a few weeks, but then he’s always liked his privacy. Lately he’s even taken to having his food delivered.’ He scratched his chin. ‘Though I haven’t seen the delivery boy for a while. . . . But I wouldn’t . . .’
    Slokker interrupted the old man’s monologue.
    ‘Well, I am not leaving until you come upstairs with me and see for yourself. If you won’t I’ll complain to the landlord.’
    The old man got to his feet with a long-suffering expression, and took down from its hook the duplicate key for Apartment 205.
    A few moments later the two were climbing the spiral staircase to the fourth floor, the concierge grumbling as they made their way upwards. He paused several times to draw on the now lit cigarette. It seemed to Slokker that he took as long as he possibly could.
    ‘You’re a medical student, you say? Well, let me tell you, Monsieur, that I haven’t much time for doctors. One of you scoundrels gave me six months to live and that was more than twenty years ago! What do you think of that, eh?’
    ‘What I’d like to know is what you meant when you said that this Deschamps was a little odd.’
    ‘Odd, eh, odd? Well, isn’t everyone a bit odd in their own way? When you’re as old as I am, perhaps you’ll realise that too. Odd? I meant nothing by it. Only that when I helped Monsieur Deschamps move his belongings upstairs, oh, when was it?’ He had stopped again. ‘Yes, when I helped him I happened to glance at his books.’
    ‘And?’
    ‘Well, they were unusual books. Things about premonitions, fortune telling, magic and the like. He seemed ashamed of them. Oh and some on black magic! So what do you make of that, eh, my young Flemish friend! Eh? Black magic!’
    At which statement the concierge laughed. This set off a violent coughing fit. He threw his cigarette to the floor and insisted they wait a while for