Free Charnel House by Graham Masterton Page B

course, there is the possibility that some supernatural event occurred somehow connected with your occult investigations here.”
    I glanced up. “You consider that as a possibility?”
    Lieutenant Stroud smiled. “Just because I’m a detective, that doesn’t mean I’m totally impervious to what goes on in this world. And out of this world, too. One of my hobbies is science fiction.”
    I didn’t know what to say for a while. Maybe this tall, polite man was trying to win my confidence, trying to inveigle me into saying that Dr. Jarvis and Jane and I had sacrificed Bryan at some illicit black magic ceremony. His face, though, gave nothing away. It was intelligent but impassive. He was the first cultured-sounding policeman I’d ever met, and I wasn’t sure I liked the experience.
    I turned back to the door and indicated the wolfish doorknocker with a nod of my head.
    â€œWhat do you make of that?” I asked him.
    He raised an eyebrow. “I noticed it when I first came in. It does look a little sinister, doesn’t it?”
    â€œMy friend thought it looked like a werewolf.”
    Lieutenant Stroud stepped back. “Well, I wouldn’t know about that, Mr. Hyatt. I might like science fiction, but I’m not an expert on vampires and demons and all that kind of thing. And in any case, my superiors prefer flesh-and-blood killers they can lock in cages. I always look for the natural answer before I think of the supernatural one.”
    â€œWell, you’re a policeman.”
    The front door opened and Dr. Jarvis stepped tout. He was pale and he looked as if he’d spent the evening giving blood. “John, can I just have a private word with you?”
    Lieutenant Stroud nodded his assent. “Dr. Jarvis led me into the hallway, and next to the statue of the bear-lady he turned around and faced me with an expression that was even more shocked and grave than before.
    I said, “What’s wrong? You look awful.”
    He took out his handkerchief and patted the sweat from his forehead. “I couldn’t tell the lieutenant about this. He’s going to find out sooner or later in any case. But I’d rather he heard it from someone else, someone who’s actually there.”
    Just then, Jane came down the stairs. She said, “They’ve almost demolished the whole bedroom and they haven’t found anything. John, can we leave now? I’d give my gold lamé tights for a gin-and-orange juice.”
    â€œJane,” Dr. Jarvis said, “you might as well hear this, too. You were there when it happened. At least you’ll believe it.”
    Jane asked, frowning, “What is it? Is anything wrong?”
    I took the opportunity of putting my arm around her, and giving her a protective, masculine squeeze. It’s strange how a man’s sexual instincts go on working, even in moments of crisis and horror. But my ardor wasn’t exactly firing on all eight. And when Dr. Jarvis told us his news, my hand dropped to my side and I stood there, frightened and wooden and coldly convinced that what was happening in Seymour Wallis’s house was growing darker and more powerful and more malevolent with every hour that passed.
    â€œI had a call from Elmwood. They took your friend Bryan Corder straight into the morgue, and began a postmortem.”
    â€œDid they find out how he died?” asked Jane.
    Dr. Jarvis swallowed uncomfortably. “They didn’t find out because they couldn’t. In spite of what happened to his head, he’s still clinically alive.”
    My mouth fell open like an idiot. “Still alive? He can’t be!”
    â€œI’m afraid that he is. At least, the surgeons believe he is. You see, his heart’s still beating. They listened to his chest, and it’s beating loud and clear at twenty-four beats to the minute.”
    â€œTwenty-four?” asked Jane. “That’s