Free The White Hands and Other Weird Tales by Mark Samuels Page B

gazed into the mirror he saw the revenant’s face smile almost benignly.
     
    ***
     
    Some days later the old concierge made his way up the stairs to Slokker’s apartment. He had not seen the young man during this period and although he didn’t particularly care for him, he was obliged to investigate, as the owners of the building had complained that the rent had not been paid. Up until now the concierge had ignored the various entreaties that Slokker’s medical friends had made; his distaste for their profession made him dismiss them as do-gooders. The old man had his own theory: Slokker had simply absconded in the last few days without a word to anyone in order to escape his debts. It had happened before. What else would you expect from foreign students?  
    No one answered his knocking so he entered, using the duplicate key. He had knocked quietly as he had no desire to attract the usual crowd of neighbours. Inside, the apartment looked much as it had before. The old concierge shuffled about, looking through Slokker’s personal effects. His clothes were still hanging in the wardrobe, and even his watch lay on the bedside table, next to the unmade bed. The mirror on the wardrobe door had been smashed and likewise the one above the sink in the bathroom. There were newspapers stuck to the windows, and he recognised the pile of pamphlets that Slokker must have taken from Deschamps’ apartment.
    The concierge closed the door quietly and walked softly down the corridor to 205. He was doing his best not to feel jumpy, but he had to admit that the whole thing was odd. Once inside, he too noticed that although the painter’s equipment was there, they had yet to begin work. Nevertheless, it looked to him as if someone else, probably Slokker, had been there before him. Things had been moved around. When he checked the windowless room he had to leave the door open so that he could see more clearly into the unlit chamber. There was an odd shadow in the gloom, and so he switched on the dim lamp.
    The light revealed Slokker’s starved body hanging in mid-air. The face was fixed in a grimace of pain and the lips were drawn back from clenched teeth. The sightless eyes were staring downwards at his reflection in the mirror. Slokker must have taken the belt from his trousers, fastened it around his neck, climbed up onto the chair and then attached the buckle to the obsolete light fitting on the ceiling. He had then kicked away the chair.
    The concierge made himself turn away from the sight and his first thought was of the nasty reputation another suicide might lend the building. First Monsieur Deschamps (though he had at least had the decency to end his life elsewhere) and now this young idiot! He closed the door behind him, ensured that it was securely locked once more and made his way back to his office downstairs. As he sat waiting for the gendarmes’ arrival, he realised that he must have picked up some of the pamphlets from Slokker’s rooms. They were there in front of him, on the desk. He must have put them down there before he’d telephoned the authorities.
    That night, after they had taken Slokker’s body away, the concierge was troubled by a dream about being trapped in a dark, windowless room.
     
     
     
     

The Impasse
    The Ulymas Organisation was located in a sprawl of dilapidated buildings on the far west side of the city. None of the structures were more than four floors high and the exteriors were of bland, whitewashed brickwork, the paint flaking away from the walls. The windows were barred on the outside and always dirty, as if to deter those within from seeing the world outside. This neglect lent the business an air of unimportance, as if the work done there was subsidiary. Were it not for the dribble of workers that made their way to the place in the mornings and crept away in the evenings it might even have been assumed that the whole complex was derelict.  
    The employees arrived by way of the underground