Conan the Adaptable, page 110
"If it had been a sheer cliff, I'd have broken his neck. As it was, I went tumbling down, rolling and sliding, and brought up at the bottom scratched and bruised, with his garments in rags. I looked up and saw Evlena staring down, apparently frightened half out of her wits."
"Oh Enri!" she cried. "Are you hurt? How came you to fall?"
"It was on the tip of my tongue to tell her that there was such a thing as carrying a joke too far, but these words checked me. I decided that she must have stumbled against me unintentionally, and actually didn't know it was she who precipitated me down the slope."
"So I laughed it off, and went home. She made a great fuss over me, insisted on swabbing my scratches, and lectured me for my carelessness! I hadn't the heart to tell her it was her fault."
"But four days later, the next thing happened. I was walking along when I saw her coming up with the carriage. I stepped out on the grass to let her by, as there wasn't much room to spare. She was smiling as she approached me, and slowed down the carriage, as if to speak to me. Then, just before she reached me, a most horrible change came over her expression. Without warning the carriage leaped at me like a living thing as she drove her whip down on the horses. Only a frantic leap backward saved me from being ground under the wheels. The carriage shot across the lawn and crashed into a tree. I ran to it and found Evlena dazed and hysterical, but unhurt. She babbled of losing control of the team."
"I carried her into the house and sent for a doctor. He found nothing seriously wrong with her, and attributed her dazed condition to fright and shock. Within moments she regained her normal senses, but she's refused to touch the carriage since. Strange to say, she seemed less frightened on her own account than on mine. She seemed vaguely to know that she'd nearly run me down, and grew hysterical again when she spoke of it. Yet she seemed to take it for granted that I knew the machine had got out of her control. But I distinctly saw her wrench the wheel around, and I know she deliberately tried to hit me—why, Mitra alone knows."
"Still I refused to let his mind follow the channel it was getting into. Evlena had never given any evidence of any mental weakness or 'nerves'; she's always been a level-headed girl, wholesome and natural. But I began to think she was subject to crazy impulses. Most of them have felt the impulse to leap from tall buildings. And sometimes a person feels a blind, childish and utterly reasonless urge to harm someone. We pick up a knife, and the thought suddenly enters our mind how easy it would be to send our friend, who sits smiling and unaware, into eternity with a stab of the blade. Of course we don't do it, but the impulse is there. So I thought perhaps some lack of mental discipline made Evlena susceptible to these unguided impulses, and unable to control them."
"Nonsense," Conan broke in. "I've known her for some time now. If she has any such trait, she's developed it since she married you."
It was an unfortunate remark. Enri caught it up with a despairing gleam in his eyes. "That's just it—since she married me! It's a curse —a black, ghastly curse, crawling like a serpent out of the past! I tell you, I was Argello and she—she was his murdered wife!" His voice sank to a blood-freezing whisper.
Conan shuddered; it is an awful thing to look upon the ruin of a keen mind, and such he was certain that he surveyed in Baron Enri. Why or how, or by what grisly chance it had come about he could not say, but he was certain the man was mad.
"You spoke of three attempts." It was Count Trocero's voice again, calm and stable amid the gathering webs of horror and unreality.
"Look here!" Enri lifted, his arm, drew back the sleeve and displayed a bandage, the cryptic significance of which was intolerable.
"I came into the bathroom this morning looking for his razor," he said. "I found Evlena just on the point of using my best shaving implement for some feminine purpose to cut out a pattern, or something. Like many women she can't seem to realize the difference between a razor and a butcher-knife or a pair of shears.
"I was a bit irritated, and I said: 'Evlena, how many times have I told you not to use my razors for such things? Bring it here; I'll give you my pocket-knife.'"
'I—I—I'm sorry,' she said. 'I didn't know it would hurt the razor. Here it is.'
"She was advancing, holding the open razor toward him. I reached for it —then something warned him. It was the same look in her eyes, just as I had seen it the day she nearly ran over him. That was all that saved my life, for I instinctively threw up my hand just as she slashed at my throat with all her power. The blade gashed my arm as you see, before I caught her wrist. For an instant she fought me like a wild thing; her slender body was taut as steel beneath my hands. Then she went limp and the look in her eyes was replaced by a strange dazed expression. The razor slipped out of her fingers."
"I let go of her and she stood swaying as if about to faint. I went to the lavatory—his wound was bleeding in a beastly fashion—and the next thing I heard her cry out, and she was hovering over him."
"Enri!" she cried. "How did you cut yourself so terribly?"
Enri shook his head and sighed heavily. "I guess I was a bit out of his head. My self-control snapped.
"'Don't keep up this pretense, Evlena,' I said. 'Mitra knows what's got into you, but you know as well as I that you've tried to kill me three times in the past week.'
"She recoiled as if I'd struck her, catching at her breast and staring at me as if at a ghost. She didn't say a word—and just what I said I don't remember. But when I finished I left her standing there white and still as a marble statue. I got my arm bandaged and then came over here, not knowing what else to do.
"Trocero—Conan—it's damnable! Either his wife is subject to fits of insanity—" He choked on the word. "No, I can't believe it. Ordinarily her eyes are too clear and level—too utterly sane. But every time she has an opportunity to harm me, she seems to become a temporary maniac."
He beat his fists together in his impotence and agony.
"But it isn't insanity! I used to work in a ward, and I've seen every form of mental unbalance. My wife is not insane!"
"Then what—" Conan began, but he turned haggard eyes on him.
"Only one alternative remains," he answered. "It is the old curse—from the days when man walked the earth with a heart as black as hell's darkest pits, and did evil in the sight of man and of Mitra. She knows, in fleeting snatches of memory. People have seen before—have glimpsed forbidden things in momentary liftings of the veil, which bars life from life. She was the ill-fated bride of Argello, whom he murdered in jealous frenzy, and the vengeance is hers. I shall die by her hands, as it was meant to be. And she—" he bowed his head in his hands.
"Just a moment." It was Trocero again. "You have mentioned a strange look in your wife's eyes. What sort of a look? Was it of maniacal frenzy?"
Enri shook his head. "It was an utter blankness. All the life and intelligence simply vanished, leaving her eyes dark wells of emptiness."
Trocero nodded, and asked a seemingly irrelevant question. "Have you any enemies?"
"Not that I know of."
"You forget Rolok," Conan said. "I can't imagine that elegant sophisticate going to the trouble of doing you actual harm, but I have an idea that if he could discomfort you without any physical effort on his part, he'd do it with a right good will."
Trocero turned on him an eye that had suddenly become piercing.
"And who is this Rolok?"
"A young exquisite who came into Evlena's life and nearly rushed her off her feet for a while. But in the end she came back to her first love—Enri here. Rolok took it pretty hard. For all his suaveness there's a streak of violence and passion in the man that might have cropped out but for his infernal indolence and blase indifference."
"Oh, there's nothing to be said against Rolok," interrupted Enri impatiently. "He must know that Evlena never really loved him. He merely fascinated her temporarily with his romantic Corinthian air."
"Not exactly Corinthian, Enri," Conan protested. "Rolok does look foreign, but it isn't Corinthian. It's almost Hyrkanian."
"Well, what has Rolok to do with this matter?" Enri snarled with the irascibility of frayed nerves. "He's been as friendly as a man could be since Evlena and I were married. In fact, only a week ago he sent her a ring which he said was a peace-offering and a belated wedding gift; said that after all, her jilting him was a greater misfortune for her than it was for him—the conceited fool!"
"A ring?" Trocero had suddenly come to life; it was as if something hard and steely had been sounded in him. "What sort of a ring?"
"Oh, a fantastic thing—copper, made like a scaly snake coiled three times, with its tail in its mouth and yellow jewels for eyes. I gather he picked it up somewhere in Stygia."
"He has travelled a great deal in Stygia?"
Enri looked surprised at this questioning but answered: "Why, apparently the man's travelled everywhere. I put him down as the pampered son of great wealth. He never did any work, so far as I know."
"He is well read," Conan put in. "I've been up to his apartment several times, and I never saw such a collection of books—"
Enri leaped to his feet with an oath, "Are we all crazy?" he cried. "I came up here hoping to get some help—and you fellows fall to talking of Rolok. I'll go to—"
"Wait!" Trocero stretched out a detaining hand. "If you don't mind, we'll go over to your house. I'd like to talk to your wife."
Enri dumbly acquiesced. Harried and haunted by grisly forebodings, he knew not which way to turn, and welcomed anything that promised aid.
They made their way over in his carriage, and scarcely a word was spoken on the way. Enri was sunk in moody ruminations, and Trocero had withdrawn himself into some strange aloof domain of thought beyond his ken. He sat like a statue, his dark vital eyes staring into space, not blankly, but as one who looks with understanding into some far realm.
Though Conan counted the man among his best friends, he knew but little of his past. He had come into his life as abruptly and unannounced as Rolok had come into the life of Evlena.
At Enri's house Evlena met them calmly, showing inner agitation only by the over-restraint of her manner. Conan saw the beseeching look she stole at her husband. She was a slender, soft-spoken girl, whose dark eyes were always vibrant and alight with emotion. That child try to murder her adored husband? The idea was monstrous. Again he was convinced that Baron Enri himself was deranged.
Following Trocero's lead, we made a pretence of small talk, as if they had casually dropped in, but Conan felt that Evlena was not deceived. Their conversation rang false and hollow, and presently Trocero said: "Mrs. Enri, that is a remarkable ring you are wearing. Do you mind if I look at it?"
"I'll have to give you my hand," she laughed. "I've been trying to get it off today, and it won't come off."
She held out her slim white hand for Trocero's inspection, and his face was immobile as he looked at the metal snake that coiled about her slim finger. He did not touch it. Conan himself was aware of an unaccountable repulsion. There was something almost obscenely familiar about that dull copperish reptile wound about the girl's white finger.
"It's evil-looking, isn't it?" She involuntarily shivered. "At first I liked it, but now I can hardly bear to look at it. If I can get it off I intend to return it to Rolok."
Trocero was about to make some reply, when the doorbell rang. Enri jumped as if shot, and Evlena rose quickly.
"I'll answer it, Enri—I know who it is."
She returned an instant later with two more mutual friends, those inseparable cronies, Donail, whose burly body, jovial manner and booming voice were combined with as keen a brain as any in the profession, and Bain, elderly, lean, wiry, acidly witty. Both were old friends of the Ash family. Donail had ushered Evlena into the world, and Bain was always Uncle Bain to her.
"Greetings, Enri! Hello, Trocero!" roared Donnelly. "Conan, have you got any weapons with you? Last time your nearly cut my head off demonstrating that fine blade of yours!"
"Donail!"
We all turned. Evlena was standing beside a wide table, holding it as if for support. Her face was white. Our badinage ceased instantly. A sudden tension was in the air.
"Donail," she repeated, holding her voice steady by an effort, "I sent for you and Uncle Bain—for the same reason for which I know Enri has brought Trocero and Conan. There is a matter Enri and I can no longer deal with alone. There is something between us, something black and ghastly and terrible."
"What are you talking about, girl?" All the levity was gone from Donail's great voice.
"My husband—" She choked, then went blindly on: "My husband has accused me of trying to murder him."
The silence that fell was broken by Bain's sudden and energetic rise. His eyes blazed and his fists quivered.
"You young pup!" he shouted at Enri. "I'll knock the living daylights—"
"Sit down, Bill!" Donail's huge hand crushed his smaller companion back into his chair. "No use going off on one yet. Go ahead, honey."
"We need help. We can not carry this thing alone." A shadow crossed her comely face. "This morning Enri's arm was badly cut. He said I did it. I don't know. I was handing him the razor. Then I must have fainted. At least, everything faded away. When I came to myself he was washing his arm in the lavatory—and—and he accused me of trying to kill him."
"Why, the young fool!" barked the belligerent Bain. "Hasn't he sense enough to know that if you did cut him, it was an accident?"
"Shut up, won't you?" snorted Donnelly. "Did you say you fainted? That isn't like you."
"I've been having fainting spells," she answered. "The first time was when we were in the mountains and Enri fell down a cliff. We were standing on the edge—then everything went black, and when his sight cleared, he was rolling down the slope." She shuddered at the recollection.
"Then when I lost control of the carriage and it crashed into the tree. You remember—Enri called you over."
Donail nodded his head ponderously.
"I don't remember you ever having fainting spells before."
"But Enri says I pushed him over the cliff!" she cried hysterically. "He says I tried to run him down in the carriage! He says I purposely slashed him with the razor!"
Donail turned perplexedly, toward the wretched Enri.
"How about it, son?"
"Mitra help me," Enri burst out in agony; "it's true!"
"Why, you lying hound!" It was Bain who gave tongue, leaping again to his feet. "If you want a divorce, why don't you get it in a decent way, instead of resorting to these despicable tactics—"
"Damn you!" roared Enri, lunging up, and losing control of himself completely. "If you say that I'll tear your jugular out!"
Evlena screamed; Donnelly grabbed Bain ponderously and banged him back into his chair with no overly gentle touch, and Trocero laid a hand lightly on Enri's shoulder. The man seemed to crumple into himself. He sank back into his chair and held out his hands gropingly toward his wife.
"Evlena," he said, his voice thick with labouring emotion, "you know O love you. O feel like a dog. But Mitra help me, it's true. If we go on this way, I'll be a dead man, and you—"
"Don't say it!" she screamed. "I know you wouldn't lie to me, Enri. If you say I tried to kill you, I know I did. But I swear, Enri, I didn't do it consciously. Oh, I must be going mad! That's why my dreams have been so wild and terrifying lately—"
"Of what have you dreamed, Mrs. Enri?" asked Trocero gently.
She pressed her hands to her temples and stared dully at him, as if only half comprehending.
"A black thing," she muttered. "A horrible faceless black thing that mows and mumbles and paws over him with apish hands. I dream of it every night. And in the daytime I try to kill the only man I ever loved. I'm going mad! Maybe I'm already crazy and don't know it."
"Calm yourself." To Donail, with all his science, it was only another case of feminine hysteria. His matter-of-fact voice seemed to soothe her, and she sighed and drew a weary hand through her damp locks.
"We'll talk this all over, and everything's going to be okay," he said, drawing a thick cigar from his person. "Have you a naked flame to light this with?"
She began mechanically to feel about the table, and just as mechanically Enri said: "There is flint in the drawer, Evlena."
She opened the drawer and began groping in it, when suddenly, as if struck by recollection and intuition, Enri sprang up, white-faced, and shouted: "No, no! Don't open that drawer—don't—"
Even as he voiced that urgent cry, she stiffened, as if at the feel of something in the drawer. Her change of expression held them all frozen, even Trocero. The vital intelligence vanished from her eyes like a blown-out flame, and into them came the look Enri had described as blank. The term was descriptive. Her beautiful eyes were dark wells of emptiness, as if the soul had been withdrawn from behind them.
Her hand came out of the drawer holding a crossbow, and she fired point-blank. Enri reeled with a groan and went down, blood starting from his head. For a flashing instant she looked down stupidly at the weapon in her hand, like one suddenly waking from a nightmare. Then her wild scream of agony smote our ears.
"Oh Mitra, I've killed him! Enri! Enri!"
She reached him before any of them, throwing herself on her knees and cradling his bloody head in her arms, while she sobbed in an unbearable passion of horror and anguish. The emptiness was gone from her eyes; they were alive and dilated with grief and terror.
Conan was making toward his prostrate friend with Donnelly and Bain, but Trocero caught his arm. His face was no longer immobile; his eyes glittered with a controlled savagery.
"Leave him to them!" he snarled. "We are hunters, not healers! Lead him to the house of Rolok!"
Conan did not question him. They made their way there in Enri's carriage.
Conan had the reigns, and something about the grim face of his companion caused him to whip the horses recklessly through the evening. Conan had the sensation of being part of a tragic drama which was hurtling with headlong speed toward a terrible climax.
