A Sharpness On The Neck (Saberhagen's Dracula Book 9) by Fred Saberhagen (book suggestions TXT) 📕

his head in growing bewilderment, he pushed past me to the door, seized it by the bars which almost filled the small high opening, and pushed and pulled some more, meanwhile trying to peer out into an empty corridor. The massive wooden construction remained closed. “Still locked!” he cried, now having switched to his excellent French.

      I made no effort to quiet him. Actually there was little chance that an outburst of noise would do our cause any harm; in that world of confinement, strange and sudden out-cries were as much a part of existence as were darkness and bad smells. In that prison there were always voices raised somewhere, day and night, arguing philosophy and other trifles, debating politics of course, pleading for life, or sometimes chattering in insane monologues, carrying on arguments with God or the devil; the guards made no effort to enforce silence, and a prisoner bellowing or raving to himself was unlikely to arouse any curiosity at all. The odds were very small that anyone outside the cell would be paying any attention to the sounds emanating from it.

      Instead I remarked calmly: “I don’t suppose you’d want it found standing open?”

      “No—no, of course not.” Turning his back on the door, he forced the fingers of both hands, front to rear, through his long, dark hair. That would soon change; all prisoners under sentence of death were treated to a haircut at state expense, on the theory that nothing, not even hair or a lace collar, ought to be allowed to restrain la mechanique from attaining its maximum efficiency.

      I noted a small white bandage near the crown of his head.

      Now he was facing me again. “But—what are you doing here?”

      “You have saved my life, M’sieu Radcliffe. Now it is my turn to be of service to you.” I bowed slightly. “In fact, I insist on doing so. What has happened to your head? I see that you are bandaged.”

      “A little scuffle when I was arrested.” He shook his head, as if he found it hard to imagine what favor anyone could do for him in his present circumstances. But hope would not die in his eyes, and they stayed fixed on me.

      “I had in mind revoking your death sentence,” I offered modestly. “Unofficially, by means of escape. I take it you would not object if your stay in this world were to be substantially prolonged?”

      My client stared at me incredulously, made a strange sound in his throat, and took a turn of pacing round his cell, which was inconveniently small for such activity.

      In some other cell, far down the dismal corridor, some other prisoner chose that moment to loose a burst of maniacal laughter. Whilst my attention was thus drawn to the auditory environment, the thought crossed my mind that, if one closed one’s eyes, it sounded very much like the interior of an insane asylum.

      And that thought brought back an old memory, which I tried to retain in a place where I hoped it would be ready for use. I recalled hearing that my brother, since his last emergence from underground, had fallen into the habit of visiting such places as Charenton, amusing himself with the inmates. More particularly Radu had taken a special interest in one prisoner—what had his name been? A Frenchman, yes, and an aristocrat. The Marquis, marquis of something or other, and cruelly insane…

      My client had given up trying to pace in the cramped quarters, and had found his voice again. He kept it low, as if by instinct, as he called me by the name I had given him at his chateau. Nervously casting glances at the door and its peephole, in an urgent whisper he repeated: “But what are you doing here, M’sieu … Citizen Legrand? How did you…?”

      “I have my ways,” I assured him, in a normal voice. “Be of good cheer, Mr. Radcliffe. To get you out of La Conciergerie will be somewhat more difficult than getting myself in, but, believe me, it is well within my range of competence. Out from behind these walls, and then a few neatly forged papers … passage to the coast arranged, and then abroad. Three weeks from today you will very likely find yourself seated in some snug London tavern, regaling your friends there with some story explaining your improbable escape.”

      “Melanie,” he said, making the one word a meaningful declaration.

      “Very well, Melanie too. So, it is that way between the two of you. Well, why not?” And at that moment I was on the brink of trying to explain to him how his relationship with his beloved might be altered by the choice of means adopted to effect his release. But I let it pass. Everything I had told him so far was the truth. If not quite the whole truth, well— there would be time for that.

      “Have you seen her? Is she well?”

      “I have.” I did not specify where. “And she is.”

      And all the time the rain was dripping, dripping mournfully somewhere outside. In the distance thunder grumbled.

      Hope had now been born in Radcliffe’s eyes, and I could see that his mind was racing to establish a basis for it. In the fertile soil of America, almost any seed could grow, and quickly. But he remained prudently wary of tricks and impossibilities. In his own fluent but accented French he once more demanded: “How did you get into this cell?”

      “I have my own methods,” I repeated. “Be reassured by the fact that stone walls and locks present small obstacles to me. As they would to you, if a certain transformation in your nature were to be effected.”

      “Transformation in my nature?” Radcliffe looked at the door and nodded sagely, as if he understood. Then he turned to face me again, and admitted: “I don’t understand this at all.”

      “Nevertheless. If such barriers, and a few armed guards, were our only problems, you could be free already.”

      He stared at me, ready to dispute me. But here I was standing in front of him,