The Woman in the Black Coat - Where is it located?

The Woman in the Black Coat - About the Author

Joseph Sheridan Le Fanu

(1814–73)

This Irish novelist was born into a well-educated Dublin family. He trained as a lawyer but never practised. Instead he started writing short stories, and his first novel

appeared in 1845. He became owner and editor of the Dublin University Magazine in 1849.

But it was not until 1861, three years after his wife died, that his most important work began. Le Fanu was one of the best-selling writers of the 1860s–80s, writing ingenious tales of mystery and terror. Among the most famous are 

The House by the Churchyard (1863) and the remarkable collection of short stories entitled

In a Glass Darkly (1872). Sadly the public then lost interest in Le Fanu’s work. However, in the twentieth century, Le Fanu’s reputation rose steadily. He is now recognized as being
almost unequalled as a writer of sinister and supernatural stories.

The Woman in the Black Coat - Original

The Original version of "The Woman in the Black Coat" was written in 1838 and was called "A Chapter in the History of the Tyrone Family". The language and vocubulary is quite complex - think "The Lady and the Tiger".

I don't expect you to read the original version, but if you want to have a look at it, I've provided a link below:

http://www.online-literature.com/lefanu/3190/

The Woman in the Black Coat - Simple

 

The Woman in the Black Coat

(Based on A Chapter in the History of a Tyrone Family by Joseph Sheridan Le Fanu, 1838)

 

I was born into a rich and important family in Tyrone, Ireland.  I was the younger of two daughters and we were the only children.  My sister was six years older than me, so we didn’t play much together when I was young, and I was only twelve years old when she got married.

 

I remember the day of her wedding well.  Many people came, all of them laughing, singing and happy.  But I felt sad when my sister left with her new husband, Mr Carew.  She was always very nice to me, nicer than my mother.  And so I cried when she went away to her new home in Dublin.  My mother and father didn’t love me – they wanted sons and were not very interested in me.

 

About a year ager my sister got married, a letter arrived from Mr Carew.  He said that my sister was ill and that she wanted to come home to Tyrone and stay with us, to be with her family.  I was sad that she was ill but also very happy about her visit.

 

‘They’re leaving Dublin on Sunday,’ my father told me, ‘and they’re arriving here on Tuesday evening.’

 

Tuesday came, and it was a very long day.  Hour after hour came and went, and I listened all the time for my sister and her husband.  Now the sky was dark and soon it was midnight, but I couldn’t sleep.  I listened and waited.  Suddenly, at about one o’clock in the morning, I heard a noise far away.  I ran out of my bedroom and down to the living-room.

 

‘They’re here!  They’re here!’ I called to my father, and we quickly opened the front door to see better.  We waited there for a few minutes and we heard the noise again, somebody crying far away in the night.  But we saw nothing.  There were no lights and no people there.  We went outside, waiting to say hello and to help my sister with her bags.  But nobody was there; nobody came.  I looked to my father and he looked at me.  We didn’t understand.

 

‘I know I heard a noise,’ he said.

 

‘Yes,’ I answered.  ‘I heard it too, father, but where are they?’

 

We went back into the house without another word.  We were suddenly afraid.

 

The next day a man arrived and told us that my sister was dead.  On Sunday she felt very ill, on Monday she was worse and on Tuesday, at about one o’clock in the morning, she died…at the same time that we were outside the house, in the night, waiting for her.

 

***

 

I never forgot that night.  For the next two years I was very sad – you could say that I stopped living.  I didn’t want to do anything or speak to anyone.  Mr Carew soon married another young woman in Dublin and I felt angry that he forgot my sister so quickly.

 

I was now the only child of a rich and important family, so before I was fourteen years old men started to visit our home.  They wanted to meet me and, perhaps, to marry me.  But I didn’t like any of these men and I thought I was too young to be married.

 

When I was sixteen my mother took me to Dublin.

 

‘Dublin is a big city,’ she said.  ‘We’re going to meet richer and more interesting men than the ones back home in Tyrone.  We can easily find you a good husband in Dublin.’

 

In Dublin, I began to be happier.  I met a lot of friendly people and I went dancing every evening.  A lot of young men came to speak to me and asked me to dance; I liked talking to them.  I started to live and laugh again and I didn’t think about my dead sister all the time.

 

But my mother was not so happy.  She wanted me to find a husband quickly.  One night before I went to bed she came into my room and said, ‘Do you know Lord Glenfallen?’

 

‘Oh yes,’ I answered.  ‘He’s that ugly old man from Cahergillagh.’

 

‘He’s not ugly and he’s not old Fran,’ my mother said quickly.  ‘He’s from a very rich and important family, too, and…he wants to marry you.  He loves you.’

 

‘Loves me?  Wants to marry me?  But he’s making a mistake mother!’ I said.  ‘I don’t love him.  I can’t marry somebody I don’t love.’

 

‘Think about it, Fran,’ my mother answered quietly.  ‘He’s a good man and he wants to marry you.  You’re a very lucky young woman.’

 

My mother left the room and I sat quietly for a long time.  Lord Glenfallen was a nice, friendly man, I thought.  I didn’t love him, no, but I did like him.  He always talked about interesting things.  I never felt happy at home with my mother and father but I always felt better when I talked to him.  The next morning when I saw my mother I said only one word: ‘Yes.’

 

***

 

Lord Glenfallen and I got married the next spring, and two days after our wedding we said goodbye to my family and left Tyrone.  Three days later we arrived in Cahergillagh and I saw my husband’s beautiful house for the first time.  It was near a river and there were many trees and flowers in the garden.  Birds sang in the trees and the sky was blue.  I stood next to him and looked at it all and I felt very, very happy.

 

‘Come, my love,’ said my husband.  ‘You must come in and meet Martha.  She cooks and cleans and knows everything about the house.’  So we went into the house and I met Martha, a friendly old woman with smiling blue eyes.  She showed me round the house.  Suddenly I felt excited to be there: it was a very happy place – women sang in the kitchen, men built fires in the living-rooms and there were dogs and cats everywhere.

 

‘Come with me now, madam,’ said Martha, ‘and look at your bedroom.  Then we can take up your bags and you can wash before dinner.’  I followed her and soon we arrived at a big brown door.

 

‘This is your room,’ she said and she opened the door.  I stood and looked, suddenly cold with fear.  In front of me stood something big and black; I didn’t know what it was…I thought it was an old coat, but without anybody inside it.  I jumped back quickly, very afraid, and moved away from the door.

 

‘Is something wrong, madam?’ Martha asked me.

 

‘Nothing.  Perhaps it it’s nothing,’ I answered quickly.  ‘But I thought I saw something in there.  I thought I saw a big, black coat there when you opened the door.’

 

Martha’s face went white with fear.

 

‘What’s wrong?’ I asked here.  ‘Now you look frightened.’

 

‘Something bad is going to happen,’ she said.  ‘When someone sees the black coat in this house, we know that something bad is going to happen soon to the Glenfallen family.  I saw the black coat when I was a child and the next morning old Lord Glenfallen died.  Something bad is going to happen now, madam…I know it.’

 

We went down to have dinner.  I felt unhappy and afraid, but I didn’t say anything to my husband about the black coat.  I wanted to forget about it and be happy again.

 

The next day, Lord Glenfallen and I went for a walk together to look round the house and gardens because I wanted to know my new house better.

 

‘I like this house and all the people here,’ I said.  ‘And I’m happy to be here with you.  It’s much better than Tyrone.

 

My husband was quiet for a long time.  He walked with his head down, thinking.  Then suddenly, he turned to me, took my hand and said, ‘Fran, listen to me.  Listen carefully.  There’s something I must ask you.  Please, only go into the rooms in the front of the house.  Never go into the rooms at the back of the building or into the little garden by the back door.  Never.  Do you understand me, Fran?’  His face was white and unhappy.

 

I understood his words, but I didn’t understand why he was suddenly a different man.  Here at Cahergillagh he never smiled or laughed any more.  Perhaps the back of the house was dangerous, I thought.  But he didn’t want to talk about it anymore.  We went back to the house without speaking and again I tried to forget his words and to be as happy as I was before.

 

It was about a month later that I met the other woman for the first time.  One day I wanted to go for a walk in the gardens – it was a beautiful day and I ran up to my room after lunch to get my hat and coat.  But when I opened the door of my room, there was a woman sitting near the fire.  She was about forty years old and she wore a black coat.  Her face was white and when I looked closely I saw that her eyes were white too – she was blind.

 

‘Madam,’ I said, ‘this is my room.  There is a mistake.’

 

‘Your room!’ she answered.  ‘A mistake?  No, I don’t think so.  I don’t think there’s a mistake.  Where is Lord Glenfallen?’

 

‘Down in the living-room,’ I said.  ‘But who are you and why are you here in my room?’

 

‘Tell Lord Glenfallen that I want him,’ was all she said.

 

‘I must tell you that I am Lady Glenfallen and I want you to leave my room now,’ I said firmly.

 

‘Lady Glenfallen?  You are not, you are not!’ she shrieked and hit my face very hard.

 

I cried out for help and soon Lord Glenfallen arrived.  I ran out of the room as he ran in, and I waited outside to listen at the door.  I did not hear every word but I knew that Lord Glenfallen was very angry and the blind woman was very unhappy.  When he came out I asked him, ‘Who is that woman and why is she in my bedroom?’

 

But my husband didn’t answer me.  Again his face was white with fear.  His only words were, ‘Forget her’.

 

***

 

However, I did not forget the woman in the black coat and every day it was more and more difficult to talk to my husband.  He was always quiet now, always sad and afraid; he sat for hours looking into the fire with his unhappy eyes.  But I didn’t know why and he didn’t want to tell me.

 

One morning after breakfast, Lord Glenfallen suddenly said, ‘I have the answer!  We must go away to another country, to France or Spain perhaps.  What do you think, Fran?’

 

He didn’t wait for my answer but left the room very quickly.  I sat and thought for a long time.  Why must we leave Cahergillagh?  I didn’t understand.  And I didn’t want to go too far away from my mother and father in Tyrone.  They were old now and my father was sometimes ill.  They didn’t love me very much but I wanted to be near them.

 

I thought about it all day and I didn’t know what to say to my husband when he arrived back in the evening and came in to dinner.  I said nothing.  After dinner I was very tired and I went up to my bedroom early.  I wanted to have a good night’s sleep and think about it all again the next day.  I closed my eyes and went to sleep.  But I did not sleep well because I dreamed of the black coat.

 

Suddenly I woke up.  Everything was dark and very quiet, but somebody was at the end of my bed.  There was a hand with a light, and behind the light was the blind woman.  She had a knife in her other hand.  I tried to get out of bed and run to the door, but she stopped me.  ‘If you want to live, don’t move,’ she said.  ‘Tell me one thing – did Lord Glenfallen marry you?’

 

‘Yes, he did,’ I answered.  ‘He married me in front of a hundred people.’

 

‘Well, that’s sad,’ she said.  ‘Because I don’t think he told you that he had a wife…me.  I am his wife, not you, young woman.  You must leave this house tomorrow, because if you stay here…you see this knife?  I am going to kill you with it.’  Then she left the room without a sound.  I didn’t sleep again that night.

 

When morning came I told my husband everything.  ‘Who is the blind woman?’ I demanded.  ‘She told me last night that she is your wife, that I am not your wife.’

 

‘Did you go into the rooms at the back of the house?’ asked my husband angrily.  ‘I told you that you must never go there!’

 

‘But I didn’t,’ I answered.  ‘I was in my bed all night.  She came to me.  Please tell me what is happening.’

 

My husband’s face was white again and he didn’t speak for a long time.  Then he said, ‘No, she is not my wife.  You are.  Don’t listen to her.  She doesn’t know what she is saying.’  And he left the room.

 

I ran to find Martha.  I didn’t like this house anymore.  My husband was a difficult man and I didn’t understand him.  Who was the blind woman?  I wanted to know everything.

 

‘Don’t cry, madam,’ said Martha when I found her.  ‘Sit down and listen to me.  What I am going to tell you is not very nice.  The blind woman, the woman in the black coat, is dead.  You saw her ghost.  She was married to your husband and she was Lady Glenfallen.  Nobody knows how she died.  Her bedroom was at the back of the house.  Somebody saw your husband with a knife in his hand on the night she died.  But did he kill her?  Nobody knows.  When we found her, the knife was on the floor next to her and her eyes…somebody cut her eyes out after she died.  Perhaps he didn’t want her to see his other women…his next wife…you…’

 

***

 

I didn’t wait to speak to my husband again.  I left that day.  I was too afraid to stay another minute at Cahergillagh.  I knew that the blind woman was going to come back again and kill me.  I said goodbye to Martha, took my bags and told my driver to take me back to Tyrone.

 

I am happy living here with my mother and father now.  The house is quiet, I sleep well each night and they are friendlier to me than they were before.  Sometimes my dead sister visits me at night, but I am never afraid.  She tells me that the blind woman is trying to find me at Cahergillagh and that she wants to kill me.  She is jealous of me; but she can never find me there.  She must wait for the next Lady Glenfallen.

 

The Waxwork - About the Author

Alfred McLelland Burrage or A.M. Burrage was born in  England in 1889. His father and uncle were both successful authors, and Alfred also started his writing  career at a young age. He published his first story Footprints  at the age of 23.

He lived in London for many years and was a prolific writer of short stories – many of them ghost stories – for magazines. During the First World War he served as a private in the Artists Rifles (28th Battalion, London Regiment). He was evacuated in April 1918 due to trench foot. Some years later he went on to write about his war experiences under the pseudonym of Ex-Private X.

This book War is War was published in 1930. The Waxwork was published in 1931, also under the name of Ex-Private X. It was very popular in America and is a great example of the suspense genre.

A.M. Burrage died in 1956.

The Waxwork - Link for Video

For those who have access to Youtube, below is a link for the film of "The Waxwork".

http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=onsiCA0cqAA

When watching, think about the changes that have been made when adapting from a short story to a film.

The Waxwork - Simplified

The Waxwork

based on the work by A.M. Burrage

‘So you want to write a magazine article about spending a night in our museum?’ asked the well-dressed manager of the famous Marriner’s Waxwork Museum.

Raymond Hewson, his clothes a little rumpled, nodded.

 ‘You know we get three requests a week to spend a night here.  Most are young men on dares.  We refuse them of course.  But in your case, I think we can get some publicity.’  The manager paused. ‘Which magazine do you work for again?’

‘I’m working freelance at the moment,’ Hewson admitted.  ‘But I’m sure I can sell this story to The Morning Echo.’

‘You're not superstitious?’ the manager asked.

 

‘Not a bit,’ Hewson laughed.

 

‘But you're a journalist; you must have a strong imagination.’

 

‘The news editors for whom I've worked have always complained that I haven't got an imagination,’ Hewson smiled.

‘Okay,’ nodded the manager.  ‘Follow me, and I’ll talk to the night watchman.’

***

A new waxwork, Dr Bourdette, had just been moved in, and earlier that day there had been some talk of a fire in the room. 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 wax face of Lefroy, looking back at him with a 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, them 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 all 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. He nearly caught Crippen moving that time.

'Be careful, Crippen - and all you others,' he said. 'If I do catch 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 Echo 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 take up you 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.

THE END

The Waxwork - Original

The Waxwork

By A.M. Burrage

 

While the uniformed attendants of ‘Marriner's Waxworks’ were ushering the last stragglers through the great glass-panelled double doors, the manager sat in his office interviewing Raymond Hewson.

 

The manager was a youngish man, stout, blond and of medium height. He wore his clothes well and contrived to look extremely smart without appearing over-dressed. Raymond Hewson looked neither. His clothes, which had been good when new and which were still carefully brushed and pressed, were beginning to show signs of their owner's losing battle with the world.

 

He was a small, spare, pale man, with lank, errant brown hair, and although he spoke plausibly and even forcibly he had the defensive and somewhat furtive air of a man who was used to rebuffs.  He looked what he was, a man gifted somewhat above the ordinary, who was a failure through his lack of self-assertion.

 

The manager was speaking.

 

"There is nothing new in your request," he said. "In fact we refuse it to different people—mostly young bloods who have tried to make bets—about three times a week.  We have nothing to gain and something to lose by letting people spend the night in our Murderers' Den. If I allowed it, and some young idiot lost his senses, what would be my position? But you being a journalist somewhat alters the case."

 

Hewson smiled.

 

"I suppose you mean that journalists have no senses to lose."

 

"No, no," laughed the manager, "but one imagines them to be responsible people. Besides, here we have something to gain; publicity and advertisement."

 

"Exactly," said Hewson, "and there I thought we might come to terms."

 

The manager laughed again.

"Oh," he exclaimed, "I know what's coming.  You want to be paid twice, do you? It used to be said years ago that Madame Tussaud's would give a man a hundred pounds for sleeping alone in the Chamber of Horrors.  I hope you don't think that we have made any such offer.  Er—what is your paper, Mr. Hewson?"

 

"I am freelancing at present," Hewson confessed, "working on space for several papers. However, I should find no difficulty in getting the story printed. The Morning Echo would use it like a shot. 'A Night with Marriner's Murderers.' No live paper could turn it down."

 

The manager rubbed his chin.

 

"Ah! And how do you propose to treat it?"

"I shall make it grue some, of course; gruesome with just a saving touch of humour."

 

The other nodded and offered Hewson his cigarette-case.

 

"Very well, Mr. Hewson," he said, "Get your story printed in the Morning Echo, and there will be a five-pound note waiting for you here when you care to come and call for it. But first of all, it's no small ordeal that you're proposing to undertake. I'd like to be quite sure about you, and I'd like you to be quite sure about yourself. I own I shouldn't care to take it on. I've seen those figures dressed and undressed, I know all about the process of their manufacture, I can walk about in company downstairs as unmoved as if I were walking among so many skittles, but I should hate having to sleep down there alone among them."

 

"Why?" asked Hewson.

 

"I don't know. There isn't any reason. I don't believe in ghosts. If I did I should expect them to haunt the scene of their crimes or the spot where their bodies were laid, instead of a cellar which happens to contain their waxwork effigies. It's just that I couldn't sit alone among them all night, with their seeming to stare at me in the way they do.  After all, they represent the lowest and most appalling types of humanity, and—although I would not own it publicly—the people who come to see them are not generally charged with the very highest motives. The whole atmosphere of the place is unpleasant, and if you are susceptible to atmosphere I warn you that you are in for a very uncomfortable night."

 

Hewson had known that from the moment when the idea had first occurred to him. His soul sickened at the prospect, even while he smiled casually upon the manager. But he had a wife and family to keep, and for the past month he had been living on paragraphs, eked out by his rapidly dwindling store of savings. Here was a chance not to be missed—the price of a special story in the Morning Echo, with a five-pound note to add to it.

It meant comparative wealth and luxury for a week, and freedom from the worst anxieties for a fortnight. Besides, if he wrote the story well, it might lead to an offer of regular employment.

 

"The way of transgressors—and newspaper men—is hard," he said. "I have already promised myself an uncomfortable night because your murderers' den is obviously not fitted up as an hotel bedroom. But I don't think your waxworks will worry me much."

 

"You're not superstitious?"

 

"Not a bit," Hewson laughed.

 

"But you're a journalist; you must have a strong imagination."

 

"The news editors for whom I've worked have always complained that I haven't any. Plain facts are not considered sufficient in our trade, and the papers don't like offering their readers unbuttered bread."

 

The manager smiled and rose.

 

"Right," he said. "I think the last of the people have gone. Wait a moment. I'll give orders for the figures downstairs not to be draped, and let the night people know that you'll be here.  Then I'll take you down and show you round."

 

He picked up the receiver of a house telephone, spoke into it and presently replaced it.

 

"One condition I'm afraid I must impose on you," he remarked.

 

"I must ask you not to smoke. We had a fire scare down in the Murderers' Den this evening. I don't know who gave the alarm, but whoever it was it was a false one. Fortunately there were very few people down there at the time, or there might have been a panic. And now, if you're ready, we'll make a move."

 

Hewson followed the manager through half a dozen rooms where attendants were busy shrouding the kings and queens of England, the generals and prominent statesmen of this and other generations, all the mixed herd of humanity whose fame or notoriety had rendered them eligible for this kind of immortality.

 

The manager stopped once and spoke to a man in uniform, saying something about an arm-chair in the Murderers' Den.

 

"It's the best we can do for you, I'm afraid," he said to Hewson.

 

"I hope you'll be able to get some sleep."

He led the way through an open barrier and down ill-lit stone stairs which conveyed a sinister impression of giving access to a dungeon. In a passage at the bottom were a few preliminary horrors, such as relics of the Inquisition, a rack taken from a medieval castle, branding irons, thumbscrews, and other mementoes  of man's one-time cruelty to man. Beyond the passage was the Murderers' Den.

 

It was a room of irregular shape with a vaulted roof, and dimly lit by electric lights burning behind inverted bowls of frosted glass. It was, by design, an eerie and uncomfortable chamber— a chamber whose atmosphere invited its visitors to speak in whispers. There was something of the air of a chapel about it, but a chapel no longer devoted to the practice of piety and given over now for base and impious worship.

 

The wax work murderers stood on low pedestals with numbered tickets at their feet. Seeing them elsewhere, and without knowing whom they represented, one would have thought them a dull looking crew, chiefly remarkable for the shabbiness of their clothes, and as evidence of the changes of fashion even among the unfashionable.

 

Recent notorieties rubbed dusty shoulders with the old "favourites."

 

Thurtel, the murderer of Weir, stood as if frozen in the act of making a shop-window gesture to young Bywaters. There was Lefroy the poor half-baked little snob who killed for gain so that he might ape the gentleman. Within five yards of him sat Mrs. Thompson, that erotic romanticist, hanged to propitiate British middle-class matronhood. Charles Peace, the only member of that vile company who looked uncompromisingly and entirely evil, sneered across a gangway at Norman Thorne. Browne and Kennedy, the two most recent additions, stood between Mrs. Dyer and Patrick Mahon.

 

The manager, walking around with Hewson, pointed out several of the more interesting of these unholy notabilities.

 

"That's Crippen; I expect you recognize him. Insignificant little beast who looks as if he couldn't tread on a worm. That's Armstrong. Looks like a decent, harmless country gentleman, doesn't he? There's old Vaquier; you can't miss him because of his beard. And of course this - ”

 

"Who's that?" Hewson interrupted in a whisper, pointing.

 

"Oh, I was coming to him," said the manager in a light undertone. "Come and have a good look at him. This is our star turn. He's the only one of the bunch that hasn't been hanged."

 

The figure which Hewson had indicated was that of a small, slight man not much more than five feet in height. It wore little waxed moustaches, large spectacles, and a caped coat. There was something so exaggeratedly French in its appearance that it reminded Hewson of a stage caricature. He could not have said precisely why the mild-looking face seemed to him so repellent, but he had already recoiled a step and, even in the manager's company, it cost him an effort to look again.

 

"But who is he?" he asked.

 

"That," said the manager, "is Dr. Bourdette."

 

Hewson shook his head doubtfully.

 

"I think I've heard the name," he said, "but I forget in connection with what."

 

The manager smiled.

 

"You'd remember better if you were a Frenchman," he said.

 

"For some long while that man was the terror of Paris. He carried on his work of healing by day, and of throat-cutting by night, when the fit was on him. He killed for the sheer devilish pleasure it gave him to kill, and always in the same way— with a razor. After his last crime he left a clue behind him which set the police upon his track. One clue led to another, and before very long they knew that they were on the track of the Parisian equivalent of our Jack the Ripper, and had enough evidence to send him to the madhouse or the guillotine on a dozen capital charges.

 

"But even then our friend here was too clever for them. When he realised that the toils were closing about him he mysteriously disappeared, and ever since the police of every civilised country have been looking for him. There is no doubt that he managed to make away with himself, and by some means which has prevented his body coming to light. One or two crimes of a similar nature have taken place since his disappearance, but he is believed almost for certain to be dead, and the experts believe these recrudescence to be the work of an imitator. It's queer, isn't it, how every notorious murderer has imitators.''

 

Hewson shuddered and fidgeted with his feet.

 

"I don't like him at all," he copfessed. "Ugh! What eyes he's got!"

 

"Yes, this figure's a little masterpiece. You find the eyes bite into you.? Well, that's excellent realism, then, for Bourdette practised mesmerism, and was supposed to mesmerise his victims before dispatching them. Indeed, had he not done so, it is impossible to see how so small a man could have done his ghastly work. There were never any signs of a struggle."

 

"I thought I saw him move," said Hewson with a catch in his voice.

 

The manager smiled.

 

"You'll have more than one optical illusion before the night's out, I expect. You shan't be locked in. You can come upstairs when you've had enough of it. There are watchmen on the premises, so you'll find company. Don't be alarmed if you hear them moving about. I'm sorry I can't give you any more light, because all the lights are on. For obvious reasons we keep this place as gloomy as possible. And now I think you had better return with me to the office and have a tot of whisky before beginning your night's vigil."

 

The member of the night staff who placed the arm-chair for Hewson was inclined to be facetious.

 

"Where will you have it, sir?" he asked, grinning. "Just 'ere, so as you can 'ave a little talk with Crippen when you're tired of sitting still? Or there's old Mother Dyer over there, making eyes and looking as if she could do with a bit of company. Say where, sir."

 

Hewson smiled. The man's chaff pleased him if only because, for the moment at least, it lent the proceedings a much-desired air of the commonplace.

 

"I'll place it myself, thanks," he said. "I'll find out where the draughts come from first."

 

"You won't find any down here. Well, good night, sir. I'm upstairs if you want me. Don't let them sneak up behind you and touch your neck with their cold and clammy 'ands. And you look out for that old Mrs. Dyer; I believe she's taken a fancy to you."

 

Hewson laughed and wished the man good night. It was easier than he had expected. He wheeled the arm-chair— a heavy one upholstered in plush—a little way down the central gangway, and deliberately turned it so that its back was towards the effigy of Dr. Bourdette. For some undefined reason he liked Dr. Bourdette a great deal less than his companions. Busying himself with arranging the chair he was almost light-hearted, but when the attendant's footfalls had died away and a deep hush stole over the chamber he realised that he had no slight ordeal before him.

 

The dim unwavering light fell on the rows of figures which were so uncannily like human beings that the silence and the stillness seemed unnatural and even ghasdy. He missed the sound of breathing, the rusding of clothes, the hundred and one minute noises one hears when even the deepest silence has fallen upon a crowd. But the air was as stagnant as water at the bottom of a standing pond. There was not a breath in the chamber to stir a curtain or rusde a hanging drapery or start a shadow. His own shadow, moving in response to a shifted arm or leg, was all that could be coaxed into motion. All was still to the gaze and silent to the car, "It must be like this at the bottom of the sea," he thought, and wondered how to work the phrase into his story on the morrow.

 

He faced the sinister figures boldly enough. They were only waxworks. So long as he let that thought dominate all others he promised himself that all would be well. It did not, however, save him long from the discomfort occasioned by the waxen stare of Dr. Bourdette, which, he knew, was directed upon him from behind. The eyes of the little Frenchman's effigy haunted and tormented him, and he itched with the desire to turn and look.

 

"Come!" he thought, "my nerves have started already. If I turn and look at that dressed-up dummy it will be an admission of failure."

 

And then another voice in his brain spoke to him.

 

"It's because you're afraid that you won't turn and look at him."

 

The two Voices quarrelled silendy for a moment or two, and at last Hewson slewed his chair round a little and looked behind him.

 

Among the many figures standing in stiff, unnatural poses, the effigy of the dreadful little doctor stood out with a queer prominence, perhaps because a steady beam of light beat straight down upon it.  Hewson flinched before the parody of mildness which some fiendishly skilled craftsman had managed to convey in wax, met the eyes for one agonised second, and turned again to face the other direction.

 

"He's only a waxwork like the rest of you," Hewson muttered defiantly. "You're all only waxworks."

 

They were only waxworks, yes, but waxworks don't move. Not that he had seen the least movement anywhere, but it struck him that, in the moment or two while he had looked behind him, there had been the least subtle change in the grouping of the figures in front. Crippen, for instance, seemed to have turned at least one degree to the left. Or, thought Hewson, perhaps the illusion was due to the fact that he had not slewed his chair back into its exact original position. And there were Field and Grey, too; surely one of them had moved his hands. Hewson held his breath for a moment, and then drew his courage back to him as a man lifts a weight. He remembered the words of more than one news editor and laughed savagely to himself.

 

"And they tell me I've got no imagination!" he said beneath his breath.

 

He took a notebook from his pocket and wrote quickly.

 

"Mem.—Deathly silence and unearthly stillness of figures. Like being bottom of sea. Hypnotic eyes of Dr. Bourdette. Figures seem to move when not being watched."

 

He closed the book suddenly over his fingers and looked round quickly and awfully over his right shoulder. He had neither seen nor heard a movement, but it was as if some sixth sense had made him aware of one. He looked straight into the vapid countenance of Lefroy which smiled vacandy back as if to say, "It wasn't I!"

 

Of course it wasn't he, or any of them; it was his own nerves.

 

Or was it? Hadn't Crippen moved again during that moment when his attention was directed elsewhere. You couldn't trust that little man! Once you took your eyes off him he took advantage of it to shift his position. That was what they were all doing, if he only knew it, he told himself; and half rose out of his chair. This was not quite good enough! He was going. He wasn't going to spend the night with a lot of waxworks which moved while he wasn't looking.

 

Hewson sat down again. This was very cowardly and very absurd. They were only waxworks and they couldn't move; let him hold that thought and all would yet be well. Then why all that silent unrest about him?—a subtle something in the air which did not quite break the silence and happened, whichever way he looked, just beyond the boundaries of his vision.

 

He swung round quickly to encounter the mild but baleful stare of Dr. Bourdette. Then, without warning, he jerked his head back to stare straight at Crippen. Ha! he'd nearly caught Crippen that time! "You'd better be careful, Crippen—and all the rest of you! If I do see one of you move I'll smash you to pieces! Do you hear?"

 

He ought to go, he told himself. Already he had experienced enough to write his story, or ten stories, for the matter of that.

 

Well, then, why not go? The Morning Echo would be none the wiser as to how long he had stayed, nor would it care so long as his story was a good one. Yes, but that night watchman upstairs  would chaff him. And the manager—one never knew—perhaps the manager would quibble over that five-pound note which he needed so badly. He wondered if Rose were asleep or if she were lying awake and thinking of him. She'd laugh when he told her that he had imagined.

 

This was a little too much! It was bad enough that the wax- work effigies of murderers should move when they weren't being watched, but it was intolerable that they should breathe. Somebody was breathing. Or was it his own breath which sounded to him as if it came from a distance? He sat rigid, listening and straining until he exhaled with a long sigh. His own breath after all, or—if not, Something had divined that he was listening and had ceased breathing simultaneously.

 

Hewson jerked his head swifdy around and looked all about him out of haggard and hunted eyes. Everywhere his gaze encountered the vacant waxen faces, and everywhere he felt that by just some least fraction of a second had he missed seeing a movement of hand or foot, a silent opening or compression of lips, a flicker of eyelids, a look of human intelligence now smoothed out. They were like naughty children in a class, whispering, fidgeting and laughing behind their teacher's back, but blandly innocent when his gaze was turned upon them.

 

This would not do! This distinctly would not do! He must clutch at something, grip with his mind upon something which belonged essentially to the workaday world, to the daylight London streets. He was Raymond Hewson, an unsuccessful journalist, a living and breathing man, and these figures grouped around him were only dummies, so they could neither move nor whisper.

 

What did it matter if they were supposed to be lifelike effigies of murderers? They were only made of wax and sawdust, and stood there for the entertainment of morbid sightseers and orange-sucking trippers. That was better! Now what was that funny story which somebody had told him in the Fallstaff yesterday?

 

He recalled part of it, but not all, for the gaze of Dr. Bourdette, urged, challenged, and finally compelled him to turn.

 

Hewson half-turned, and then swung his chair so as to bring him face to face with the wearer of those dreadful hypnotic eyes.

 

His own eyes were dilated, and his mouth, at first set in a grin of terror, lifted at the corners in a snarl. Then Hewson spoke and woke a hundred sinister echoes.

 

"You moved, damn you!" he cried. "Yes, you did, damn you! I saw you!"

 

Then he sat quite still, staring straight before him, like a man found frozen in the Arctic snows.

 

Dr. Bourdette's movements were leisurely. He stepped off his pedestal with the mincing care of a lady alighting from a 'bus.

 

The platform stood about two feet from the ground, and above the edge of it a plush-covered rope hung in arc-like curves. Dr. Bourdette lifted up the rope until it formed an arch for him to pass under, stepped off the platform and sat down on the edge facing Hewson. Then he nodded and smiled and said "Good evening."

 

"I need hardly tell you," he continued, in perfect English in which was traceable only the least foreign accent, "that not until I overheard the conversation between you and the worthy manager of this establishment, did I suspect that I should have the pleasure of a companion here for the night. You cannot move or speak without my bidding, but you can hear me perfectly well.

 

Something tells me that you are—shall I say nervous? My dear sir, have no illusions. I am not one of these contemptible effigies miraculously come to life: I am Dr. Bourdette himself."

He paused, coughed and shifted his legs.

 

"Pardon me," he resumed, "but I am a little stiff. And let me explain. Circumstances with which I need not fatigue you, have made it desirable that I should live in England. I was close to this building this evening when I saw a policeman regarding me a thought too curiously. I guessed that he intended to follow and perhaps ask me embarrassing questions, so I mingled with the crowd and came in here. An extra coin bought my admission to the chamber in which we now meet, and an inspiration showed me a certain means of escape.

 

"I raised a cry of fire, and when all the fools had rushed to the stairs I stripped my effigy of the caped coat which you behold me wearing, donned it, hid my effigy under the platform at the back, and took its place on the pedestal.

 

"I own that I have since spent a very fatiguing evening, but fortunately I was not always being watched and had opportunities to draw an occasional deep breath and ease the rigidity of my pose. One small boy screamed and exclaimed that he saw me moving. I understood that he was to be whipped and put straight to bed on his return home, and I can only hope that the threat has been executed to the letter.

 

"The manager's description of me, which I had the embarrassment of being compelled to overhear, was biased but not altogether inaccurate. Clearly I am not dead, although it is as well that the world thinks otherwise. His account of my hobby, which I have indulged for years, although, through necessity, less frequently of late, was in the main true although not intelligently expressed. The world is divided between collectors and noncollectors.  With the non-collectors we are not concerned. The collectors collect anything, according to their individual tastes, from money to cigarette cards, from moths to matchboxes. I collect throats."

 

He paused again and regarded Hewson's throat with interest mingled with disfavour. "I am obliged to the chance which brought us together tonight," he continued, "and perhaps it would seem ungrateful to complain. From motives of personal safety my activities have been somewhat curtailed of late years, and I am glad of this opportunity of gratifying my somewhat unusual whim. But you have a skinny neck, sir, if you will overlook a personal remark.  I should never have selected you from choice. I like men with thick necks . . . thick red necks" He fumbled in an inside pocket and took out something which he tested against a wet forefinger and then proceeded to pass gently to and fro across the palm of his left hand.  

 

"This is a little French razor," he remarked blandly. "They are not much used in England, but perhaps you know them? One strops them on wood. The blade, you will observe, is very narrow. They do not cut very deep, but deep enough. In just one little moment you shall see for yourself. I shall ask you the little civil question of all the polite barbers: Does the razor suit you, sir?"

 

He rose up, a diminutive but menacing figure of evil, and approached Hewson with the silent, furtive step of a hunting panther.

 

"You will have the goodness," he said, "to raise your chin a little. Thank you, and a little more. Just a little more. Ah, thank you! . . . Merci, m'sieur . . . Ah, merci ... merci...."

 

Over one end of the chamber was a thick skylight of frosted glass which, by day, let in a few sickly and filtered rays from the floor above. After sunrise these began to mingle with the subdued light from the electric bulbs, and this mingled illumination added a certain ghastliness to a scene which needed no additional touch of horror.

 

The waxwork figures stood apathetically in their places, waiting to be admired or execrated by the crowds who would presently wander fearfully among them. In their midst, in the centre gang way, Hewson sat still, leaning far back in his arm-chair. His chin was uptilted as if he were waiting to receive attention from a barber, and although there was not a scratch upon his throat, nor anywhere upon his body, he was cold and dead. His previous employers were wrong in having him credited with no imagination.

 

Dr. Bourdette on his pedestal watched the dead man unemotionally.  He did not move, nor was he capable of motion. But then, after all, he was only a waxwork.

 

THE END