It was closing time at Marriner's
Waxworks. Last few visitors came out
in twos and threes through the big glass
doors. But Mr Marriner, the
boss, sat in his office, talking to a
caller, Raymond Hewson. Hewson was a thin man, carefully but poorly
dressed. He spoke well but seemed to be losing his fight to do well
in the world.
Marriner began to speak, in answer to a question from his visitor.
'Please don't think that what you're asking for is anything new,' he
said. 'A lot of people ask to stay the night in our Murderers' Room.
We always say no, because it does nothing for us. But you are a
writer. Now that's quite different. We like people to read about us.
It helps to bring in more visitors - and more money.'
'That's just what I thought,' said Hewson. 'I knew that you wanted
my help.'
Marriner laughed. 'Oh I know what you're going to say next. Somebody
told me that Madame Tussaud's gives people one hundred pounds to
stay the night in their Murderers' Room. But you mustn't think that
we're as rich as they are. Tell me, what newspaper do you work for,
Mr Hewson?'
'Oh I work for any newspaper that takes what I write,' said Hewson
carefully. 'I know that I can easily sell this story. The Morning
Times takes anything to do with murderers. Just think: "A Night with
Marriner's Murderers". Every newspaper is going to want that!'
Marriner thought for a minute. 'Very well, Mr Hewson, let's say this.
If your story comes out in The Morning Times, there's five pounds
waiting for you here the next day. But please understand it's not
easy, what you want to do. I know all about our waxworks, you see. I
walk past them hundreds of times every day. But spend a night down
there with all those figures? No thank you!'
'Why not?' asked Hewson.
'It's difficult to say. I don't like the idea, that's all. You're
not going to have an easy night, you know.'
Hewson knew that only too well. But he smiled, not wanting to show
his feelings. He remembered his wife and family. He must work hard
because of them. They had not got much money left, this month. He
must not lose this lucky opening. That newspaper was going to pay
him well for this story. And then there was the five pounds from
Marriner too. Perhaps if he wrote a good story, the newspaper had
more work to give him. But he must do this story well first.
'Murderers often have a hard time but we writers have our
difficulties too,' he said, laughing. 'Your Murderers' Room is no
hotel bedroom. But I don't think your waxworks are going to make me
too unhappy.'
'You don't feel afraid then?'
'Oh no,' laughed Hewson.
Mr Marriner smiled and stood up. 'Right,' he said. 'The last people
are all out now. Wait a minute. I want to tell the man down there
not to put the covers on the waxworks. And to tell our night people
that you're going to be down below. Then I can show you round.'
He picked up a telephone and spoke into it. Then he said, 'There's
just one thing I must ask. There was some talk of a fire down in the
Murderers' Room earlier this evening. I don't know who said there
was a fire but it seems it was a mistake. So please don't smoke. Now
if you're ready, let's make a move.'
Hewson followed Marriner through five or six rooms where his men
were at work covering up the kings of England and other famous
people. Marriner spoke to one of the men, asking him to bring an
armchair to the Murderers' Room.
'I'm sorry but that's the best we can do,' he said. 'Perhaps if you
sit in the chair, you can get some sleep.'
He took the writer down to the Murderers' Room. It was a big room
without much light. Hewson thought of a church: you felt you had to
speak very quietly in here. But this was not a good place. It was a
place for remembering wrongdoers, murderers and the bad things that
made them famous.
The waxwork
figures stood on small stands, with numbers at their feet. He knew
some of the figures but not others. There stood Thurtell, the
murderer of Weir. Over there was little Lefroy, a killer hungry for
money. Five yards away sat Mrs Thompson, known for her unusual
lovers. Browne and Kennedy, the two newest figures, stood next to
Mrs Dyer and Patrick Mahon.
Marriner showed Hewson the more interesting murderers one by one. 'That's
Crippen, as you perhaps know. A weak little man, not very
interesting to look at. There's old Vaquier. You can tell him by all
that hair on his face. And this is-'
'Yes, who's that?' asked Hewson quietly.
'Oh he's the best figure in our show. Of all these people, he's the
only one living today.'
Hewson looked at the waxwork closely: a small, thin figure only five
feet tall. It had a little moustache, big glasses and an unusual
coat. It was easy to see that he was French.
Without knowing why, he felt suddenly afraid of that smiling face.
He moved back from the figure, finding it difficult to look at it
again.
'But who is he?' he asked.
'That,' said Marriner, 'is Dr Bourdette.'
Hewson didn't know the name. Marriner smiled. 'If you're French, you
remember it well,' he said. 'For years all Paris was in fear of this
little man. He worked as a doctor by day. But at night he cut
people's throats. He killed just because he liked killing and always
in the same way. After his last murder, the police found some
important letters. They know all about him now and if only they can
catch him...
'But our friend here is too clever for them. He knew the police were
after him. They soon lost him. They're looking for him now all over
Europe. They think he's dead but they can't find the body. Last year,
there were one or two more murders. But the police believe that
another person is now doing the killing in his place. It's
interesting how every well-known murderer has his followers, isn't
it?'
Hewson felt fear run through his body.
'I don't like him much,' he said. 'Just look at those eyes!'
'You find that his eyes eat into you! That's how he did it, you
know. He could send people to sleep just with his eyes. In these
killings, the murdered person never seemed to fight back. He's too
small to kill anybody if they're not sleeping.'
'I thought I saw him move just now,' said Hewson, trying not to show
his fear.
Marriner smiled. 'You're going to think that you see many things
before the night is over. We're not going to shut you in down here.
When you feel it's time to stop, come up again. There are
watchmen in
the building, so don't be afraid you hear them moving about. I'm
sorry that I can't give you any more light. We like to have the room
dark, you understand. Now come back to my office and have a strong
drink before starting the night's work.'
The night watchman brought the armchair for Hewson. He tried to make
him laugh.
'Where do I put it, sir?' he asked. 'Just here? Then you can talk to
Dr Crippen, when you get tired of doing nothing. Or there's old Mrs
Dyer over there making
eyes at you. She usually likes to have a man to talk to.
Just tell me where, sir.'
Hewson smiled. The man's words made him feel happier - tonight's
work didn't seem quite so difficult.
'I can choose a place for it, thank you,' he said.
'Well, goodnight, sir. I'm on the floor above if you want me. Don't
let any of these figures come up behind you and put their cold hands
round your throat. And look out for that old Mrs Dyer. I think she
finds you interesting.'
Hewson laughed and said goodnight to the man.
After some thought,
he put the armchair with its back to Dr Bourdette. He couldn't say
why but Bourdette was much worse to look at than the other figures.
He felt quite happy as he put the chair in its place. But as the
watchman's feet died away,
he thought of the long night in front of him. Weak light lit the
lines of figures. They seemed near to being living people. The big
dark room was very quiet. Hewson wanted to hear the usual sounds of
people talking and moving about, but there was nothing. Not a
movement. Not a sound.
'I feel I'm on the floor of the sea,' he thought. 'I must remember
to put that into my story.'
He looked without much interest at the unmoving figures all round
him. But before long,
he felt those eyes again, the hard eyes of Bourdette, looking at him
from behind. He wanted more and more to turn round and look at the
figure.
'This is all wrong,' he thought. 'If I turn round now, it only shows
that I'm afraid.'
And then he heard another person speaking inside his head. 'It's
just because you are afraid, that you can't turn round and look.'
These different thoughts seemed to be fighting inside him.
Finally, Hewson turned his chair a little and looked behind him. Of
the many figures standing there, the figure of the little doctor
seemed the most important. Perhaps this was because a stronger light
came down on the place where he stood. Hewson looked at the face so
cleverly made in
wax.
His eyes met the figure's eyes. He quickly turned away.
'He's only a waxwork, the same as the others,' Hewson said quietly.
They were only waxworks, yes. But waxworks do not move. He didn't
see any of them moving. But he did think that now the figures in
front of him seemed to be standing a little differently. Crippen was
one. Was his body turned a little more to the left? 'Or,' he thought,
'perhaps my chair isn't quite in the same place after turning
round.'
Hewson stopped looking. He
took out a little book and wrote a line or two.
'Everything quiet. Feel I'm on the floor of the sea. Bourdette
trying to send me to sleep with his eyes. Figures seem to move when
you're not watching.'
He closed the book and quickly looked to his right. He saw only the
weak wax face of Lefroy, looking back at him with sorry smile.
It was just his fears. Or was it? Didn't Crippen move again as he
looked away? He just waited for you to take your eyes off him, then
made his move. 'That's what they all do. I know it!', he thought. 'It's
too much!' He started to get up from his chair.
He must leave immediately.
He couldn't stay one night with a lot of
murderers,
moving about when he wasn't looking!
Hewson sat down again. He must not be so
jumpy. They
were only waxworks, so there was nothing to fear. But why then did
he feel so afraid, always thinking that they played games with him?
He turned round again quickly and met Bourdette's hard eyes. Then
suddenly, he turned back to look at Crippen. Ha! He nearly caught
Crippen moving that time. 'Be careful, Crippen - and all you others,'
he said. 'If I do caught you moving, I'm going to break your arms
and legs off. Do you hear?'
'I can leave now,' he thought. 'I've got a lot to write about. A
good story - ten good stories! The Morning Times isn't going to know
how long I stayed here. They aren't interested. But the watchman is
going to laugh if he sees me leaving so early. And then there's the
money from Marriner - I don't want to lose that.'
But this was too hard. It was bad that the waxworks moved behind
your back. But it was worse that they could
breathe. Or
was it just his breathing, seeming to come from far away? These
figures seemed to be doing what children do in a lesson: talking,
laughing and playing when the person giving the lesson turns his
back.
'There I go again,' he thought. 'I must think about other things.
I'm Raymond Hewson. I live and breathe. These figures round me
aren't living. They can't move and speak as I can. They're only made
of wax. They just stand there for old ladies and little boys to look
at.'
He began to feel better again. He tried to remember a good story a
friend told him last week...
He remembered some of it but not all. He had the feeling that
Bourdette's eyes were on him again. He must have a look. He
half-turned
and then pulled his chair right round. Now, they were face to face.
As he spoke, his words seemed to fly back at him from the darkest
corners of the room.
'You moved, you little animal!' he screamed. 'Yes you did. I saw you!'
Then he sat, looking in front of him, not moving, cold with fear. Dr
Bourdette moved his little body slowly and carefully. He got down
from his stand and sat right in front of Hewson. Then he smiled and
said in good English, 'Good evening. I did not know that I was going
to have a friend here tonight. Then I heard you and Marriner talking.
You cannot move or speak now until I tell you. But you can hear me
quite easily, I know. Something tells me that you are - let's say, a
little afraid of me. Make no mistake, sir. I am not one of these
poor dead figures suddenly turned into a living thing. Oh no. I am
Dr Bourdette in person.'
He stopped and moved his legs.
'I am sorry but my arms and legs are quite tired. I don't want
to take up your time
with my uninteresting story. I can just say that some unusual
happenings brought me to England, I was near this building this
evening, when I saw a policeman looking at me too closely. I thought
perhaps he wanted to ask me some difficult questions, so I quickly
came in here with all the other visitors. Then I had a very good
idea. I told somebody that I saw smoke. Everybody ran out into the
street, thinking there was a fire. I stayed here. I
undressed that
figure of me, put on its coat and quickly put the figure at the back
of the room, where nobody could see it. Then I took its place here
on the stand.
I must say that I had a very tiring evening. But luckily the people
didn't watch me all the time. I could breathe sometimes and move my
arms and legs a little.
What Marriner said about me was not very nice, you know. But he was
right about one thing - I am not dead. It's important that the world
thinks I am. What he said about my doings is mostly right too. Most
people, you know, collect something or other. Some collect books,
some collect money, others collect pictures or train tickets. And
me? I collect throats.'
He stopped talking for a minute and looked at Hewson's throat
carefully. He did not seem to think it was a very good one.
'I'm happy you came tonight,' he
went on. 'You
mustn't think that I don't want you here. It was difficult for me to
do any interesting "collecting" over the last few months. So now I'm
happy to go back
to my usual work. I'm sorry to see that your throat is a
little thin, sir. Perhaps that is not a nice thing to say. But I
like men with big throats best. Big, thick, red throats...'
He took something from his coat, looked at it closely and ran it
across his wet finger. Then he moved it slowly up and down over his
open hand.
'This is a little French
razor,' he said quietly. 'Perhaps you know them. They do
not cut very far into the throat but they cut very cleanly, I find.
In just a minute, I am going to show you how well they cut. But
first, I must ask the question that I always ask: is the razor to
your liking, sir?'
He stood up: small and very dangerous. He walked over to Hewson as
slowly and quietly as a cat going after a bird.
'Please be so good as to put your head back a little. Thank you. And
now a little more. Just a little more. Ah, thank you! That's right,
Monsieur... Thank you... Thank you...'
At one end of the room is a small window. In the daytime it gives a
weak light. After the sun
comes up, this new light makes the room seem sadder
and dirtier than before. The waxwork figures stand in their places,
with unseeing eyes. Soon the visitors are going to arrive. They are
going to walk round, looking at this figure or that but today, in
the centre of the room, Hewson sits with his head far back in his
armchair. His face is up, ready for the razor. There is no cut on
his throat or anywhere on his body. But he is cold. Dead. And Dr
Bourdette watches the dead man from his stand, without any show of
feeling. He does not move. He cannot move but then, he is only a
waxwork. |