Ghosts by Gaslight - Jack Dann [201]
“How have you fed her?” I enquired.
My host came toward me. “By means of a tube right through to her stomach. And a protein solution, which I saw described in—”
“Who the devil are you, sir?” repeated the curly-headed gentleman. But I was studying the electrodes in Maubusson’s hands, and didn’t answer. Besides, I thought, it was up to my host to explain my presence, which he did. “Henry, this is Professor Delorme, from Paris. I spoke to you—”
“Did you now? Well, perhaps he would be good enough to wait outside, until we are finished here. Under the circumstances—”
I looked at him now, a young man with a mottled complexion and side-whiskers. “Monsieur,” said my host, “may I present my daughter’s fiancé, Mr. Henry Lockett?”
“Enchanté,” I said. “But am I right in thinking it was to the young lady’s temples that you attached the posts? I can see the marks—”
“It was unclear in your description,” confessed Monsieur Maubusson. Then he paused. “Professor, I can tell from your face that I have blundered—please, if you could help us now. It’s not been five minutes since—”
“No, it’s enough,” cried Mr. Lockett, in English. He moved to confront me, a menacing, muscular figure, though he was not my height. “It is finished. Make an end, sir. Make an end.”
He was talking to Maubusson, but he was staring at me. As for my host, he continued without stopping. “I had thought I could duplicate your results by following your descriptions. Forgive me. If that had been possible, I never would have thought to involve you . . .”
I had turned away from Mr. Lockett and was examining instead the face of Mlle. Maubusson in her zinc bathtub. I examined her long eyelashes and dark lips. Already, though, there was a yellowish pallor to her cheeks, which suggested we had not much time. “The electrodes must be divided, and fastened to several places on the cranium,” I said. “Other places also.”
I only said this because she resembled so completely the woman in my dream. Mr. Lockett threw up his hands. “By God, that’s enough,” he said. “Maubusson, I can’t tolerate this—I won’t have this fellow touch her with his black hands. I will not stay here. If you persist, I will inform the authorities the first thing in the morning—no, by God, sir, stand aside.”
It occurred to me that Henry Lockett might have heard some chance rumor of my dear grandmama. In short, he might not have been so ignorant of me and of my reputation as he had claimed. Wishing to confound him, as he was speaking I had reached for the young lady’s wrist.
A wet gust of wind pushed into the room, disturbing the curtains by the open sash, where a braided cable of wires and rubber tubes ran down into the courtyard. Reflected there, I could see indirectly the evil red glow of the generator. Monsieur Maubusson crossed the room as if to shut the window. But he turned back before he reached it, revealing a pistol in his hand. “Stand away, sir,” he cried. “No, you—Henry. Please, my boy, you must understand. There is no time to be lost.”
“Sir, you must be drunk or else insane,” began the outraged fiancé, a diagnosis that coincided with my own, although I saw no reason why the two possibilities had to exclude each other. In fact, I wondered if Lockett himself had been excessively fortified with liquor, as I could smell it on his breath and clothes the moment he’d approached me, where I stood by Mlle. Maubusson’s tub, testing the rigidity of her arm and elbow—her skin was very cold. Her father made a sudden gesture, and Lockett backed away from me all the way to the door, where he stood impotently, his eyes wet, his face red.
Another gesture, and he was gone. My host followed him to the open door. “I’ll see him out,” he said, putting the pistol aside. “Besides, I must restart the engine.”
I was happy they were gone. I wanted Mlle. Maubusson to myself. No sooner had her father left the room than I went to work. Along one wall, incongruous against the painted wallpaper, there