Post by Vaughan on Aug 15, 2009 11:34:08 GMT
I'd like to discuss my thoughts and ideas behind this story at a later date. For the moment I'll just lay it out for you.
My third attempt at short horror fiction!
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“It’s a little embarrassing.” Police Inspector Jackson said. “But if you can help and clear this up, perhaps it’ll calm the young man down.”
Ivon Atwill, owner and proprietor of the wax museum smiled, forever the perfect composed host. “Well, in principle that sounds as though it’s something worth doing.”
The Inspector hesitated, the words “in principle” hung in the air despite the quiet, measured agreement, Ivon Atwill was clearly an intelligent man. “I realize this is a strange request.” He said. “And you’re under no obligation to acquiesce, Mr, Atwill.” He hoped just the hint of authority would persuade the man to help.
“Indeed.” Atwill replied.
They were standing in the foyer of the museum, a small yet rather grand space with four pillars rising up to the high ceiling, each painted bright gold. Red velvet curtains, heavy and long, filled the spaces between the pillars giving three entrances in all. Through the central space was the public area of the museum, through the two others, to their left, office space, and to the right a workshop. A small ticket office was set in the front, directly facing the street.
Atwill cut a prim figure in a smart suit, and white gloved hands. When he had shaken the inspector’s hand he had snatched his own away quickly, as though it were not his way.
Standing beside the Inspector was a young man, Michael Curtiz. Atwill glanced at him, moving his eyes from head to toe in a slow deliberate manner. The man was a pest. He’s badly deteriorated since he’d first visited the gallery. He was somewhat dishevelled, and didn’t look as though he’d slept in days. “Good evening, Mr. Curtiz.” He said, with the same fixed smile.
Curtiz was sprung tight, he made a tiny movement as though he was going to step forward and grab at Atwill’s throat, but before the move could be made Inspector Jackson put his arm between them and addressed Atwill directly, drawing his attention away from the young man. “It’s an unusual request, I know. But I’m sure you understand that it might well be the best, and fastest way, of handling things.”
“Inspector,” Atwill began, his hands forming a pyramid as he spoke. “I’m sure you appreciate that I’m somewhat hesitant. This man,” Atwill nodded toward Curtiz gently, with a slight movement that was barely noticeable, “has been something of a problem on these very premises, and for quite some time too. He has made threats against both myself and one of my exhibits.”
“Yes sir, I appreciate that.”
“My exhibits are the result of painstaking, time consuming work, you understand. They are, not to put too fine a point on it, irreplaceable.”
The Inspector took a deep breath, puffing his chest out, standing a little taller. This was a simple technique intended to give him authority, and to let Atwill know that he could be back at the museum in the morning with a warrant if it really came to it. “It is to that end that this gesture on your part could bring this entire matter to a close. Mr. Curtiz assures me that, should you do as he asks, it would put an end to the matter. He will not return.”
Atwill looked once again at Curtiz. The young man’s eyes were framed in red, he had a wild demeanour, borne of sleepless nights, drink, and desperation. He knew that the man’s fiancé, Florence Dempsey, had gone missing just a few weeks before. He had seen Curtiz and the girl at the museum one evening, and soon after she had disappeared without a trace.
Since it was the last place they had been together Curtiz had returned to the museum shortly afterwards, asking if Florence had ever revisited. Atwill had assured him she hadn’t, but something had brought the young man back time and again, until one day his worst fears were realized. “I’ve seen her in your museum!” Curtiz spat.
They were the first words the man had spoken since arriving with the Inspector.
“I can assure you, young man. Your Miss Dempsey is not here.”
The Inspector was keen for the two not to get into another argument; there had been reported disturbances several times during the week already, with the lady in the ticket booth, with the attendants in the museum. “Mr. Atwill, I’m sure you’ll acknowledge there is a close resemblance to the young woman in question in one of your exhibits.”
Atwill turned his attention from the young man back to the Inspector, “This is a large city, Inspector, yet for an old man like myself who doesn’t get around very much, one must draw inspiration from ones surroundings.” He then turned his glance to the young man, “I have never denied that Miss Dempsey was part of the inspiration in this case.” He added. “But I fail to see how that translates to any crime being committed.”
“Did the woman model for you?” The Inspector asked.
“Just by being.” Atwill replied.
Curtiz fumed, his mind racing. His lack of sleep might have been expected to make him languid, tired, but in fact it had had the opposite effect. He was eager, intolerant, and angry. “No!” He shouted. “It’s too close, too perfect!” He’d wanted to hold back his secret, but now it came tumbling out, “The birthmark on her ankle, you wouldn’t have known about the birthmark on her ankle!”
Ivon Atwill’s expression changed suddenly, the veneer of calculated calm dropping for a second, and then returned as though the change had never taken place at all. The Inspector made a mental note, it couldn’t be true, could it? “Coincidence, Mr. Curtiz.” Atwill replied
“Like hell!” Curtiz barked.
“Inspector, do I have your assurance that this will bring an end to this matter. I am a very busy man, and if this young gentlemen insists on this course of action it could prove quite costly to me.”
The Inspector nodded, and then addressed Curtiz. “I have made it very clear to Mr. Curtiz that this must be the end of it. If there are any further incidents after this point in time then I will be forced to take the most severe action to ensure there can be no further trouble or inconvenience to yourself, Mr. Atwill.”
Ivon Atwill paused for a moment, as though taking the thought in. Then his smile broadened slightly, and he nodded his head, turned and raised his hand as if to welcome new customers. “Very well,” he said. “If this is how it must be, then perhaps we could get on with it. This way gentlemen.” He took a step toward the break in the center curtains, pulling them aside to expose the entrance to the museum exhibits. “I must insist that nothing is touched other then the exhibit in question, they are most valuable.” He added.
“We are only interested in the one work.” The Inspector assured him.
Atwill allowed them to pass and then followed. The work in question was on the back wall, in the corner. Curtiz moved toward it quickly, he eyes transfixed. When he had first seen it he had cried out and fallen to his knees in anguish. Raking sobs had consumed him as the other visitors had looked on aghast. This had led to his being asked to leave, and when he had tried to return one, two, three times, he had been denied access.
At the sight of her, exactly as he had remembered, every bit of despair and tiredness was brought to the surface. How he’d missed her. She haunted his every thought, he’d seen her countless times out of the corner of his eye, walking the streets, sitting in tea shops, standing outside stores looking through the windows at jewellery and clothes. A ghost going through her motions, and then gone.
He knew something terrible had happened to her, had happened to her here. She was never coming back, and he must know why. “Florence!” He wailed, as he reached the enhibit.
The sculpture towered over him, raised high from the marble floor by its setting. She was even dressed in clothes she’d have liked. Her arms were outstretched, her mouth open in full voice. How could Atwill have known she was an opera singer, how could he have posed her thus if he hadn’t spent time with her? And if this was an innocent coincidence, why was he denying she had posed?
“Florence!” He wailed again, making a move to step up and hold her.
“Inspector,” Atwill commanded, “I must insist this young man controls himself. If we are to do this then it must be done carefully, and without substantial damage being done.”
“We understand,” The inspector said, raising his voice to draw the attention of the young man, to draw him back and exert control, “don’t we Mr. Curtiz.”
Curtiz hesitated, half up on the platform. Yes, he could wait, soon the museum proprietor would be exposed. He stepped back down. “I understand, but when we confirm my suspicions he will have a lot of explaining to do.”
They all now stood before the sculpture. The Inspector was looking at the hands, the face, the eyes. Although he had no doubt the young man was losing his mind and making an absurd accusation, he had to admit there was something about the work. Of course a master sculptor was expert in making lifelike figures, but this one almost seemed to breathe. The skin almost glistened with a fine layer of sweat, as though it were a young woman caught in time.
“And what is the nature of our experiment?” Atwill asked.
“Well,” the Inspector began, loosening his posture, knowing he would need extraordinary cooperation to go ahead. “I was rather hoping you could suggest ways in which this young man’s accusation might be addressed to his satisfaction. Is there any thing you can think of?”
Atwill breathed in, pouted and moved his head slightly. “I’m not sure inspector. The exhibits are rather fragile, they really don’t like being moved, and sometimes don’t survive if they are.”
The Inspector gave a small cough, “If I might enquire, is the model complete?” He asked.
“Complete?”
“Well,” the inspector knew Atwill had understood, but he was forcing him to say the words. “What I mean is, is it fully, anatomically…”
Atwill interrupted him, relieving him of his embarrassment. “You mean is the torso fully sculpted too?” He asked.
“Yes.”
“I can assure you Inspector, she is,” he let the words drift to allow some dignity to fill the space, “a finished piece of work. You see, we offer an illusion here, a unique and very special life. Any obvious compromise shows. Believe me, while it might seem excessive to someone untrained, like yourself, if she were not complete then our more refined customers would know. It is what we are known for, a complete person.”
The Inspector frowned at Atwill’s use of words, ‘a complete person’?
“Well, how can we prove that this is not, in fact, the young woman in question?”
“Standing here covered in wax.” Atwill added, allowing himself to laugh.
Curtiz tensed, he wouldn’t allow these men to talk about such things, not when the stakes were so high. Despite everything he still hoped Florence could somehow be saved, that all was not lost. At the very least he could have closure.
Frantically Curtiz glanced around him, looking at the floor, the walls. His eyes settled on another sculpture just behind him. It was of a women standing in the setting of a hallway, dressing. A large hat was upon her head, her hand raised with hatpin between fingers. He rushed forward, jumped up upon the setting, and snatched at the hatpin, finding it was real, the cold metal in his grasp.
“Mr. Curtiz!” Atwill shouted. “Please take care of Charlotte!” He took a step forward, all composure gone. “Inspector, I took your word that you would control this man, I hope I won’t regret it!”
The Inspector moved with the men, standing between them. “Mr. Curtiz, I must insist upon your keeping complete control of yourself. Mr. Atwill has been most cooperative and understanding thus far, but if you act this way I’ll be forced to arrest you.”
For a moment Curtiz seemed to deflate. His nerve was going, as though he were about to wake into a bad dream. He had to save Florence, he had to do whatever it takes. But he must remain calm, it would only be a matter of moments before Atwill was exposed. “I’m sorry.” He said. “I must know.”
Atwill softened, “Perhaps Mr. Curtiz could tell us what he has in mind?”
However it was obvious to them all. Curtiz had intended to use the hatpin to stab into the sculpture. If the model was indeed wax, then it would be clear, he’d be able to push the hatpin all the way through. If however, as Curtiz suspected, there was only a thin veneer of wax, then it too would be exposed, along with Atwill himself!
The inspector moved his eyes from the hatpin to the proprietor. “Would a hatpin cause significant damage?” He asked.
“Inspector,” Atwill responded, “these works are my life, my marvels! Piercing them is out of the question!”
“But I fail to see a better way of confirming things.”’ The Inspector replied. “We do all agree that this must end tonight, before things get further out of hand? I’d dislike having to come back and demanding more obtrusive action be taken.”
Atwill bristled, looking a little nervous. “I don’t think you fully understand what you’re asking, Inspector. This young man loves the girl, and I’m sure that his heart is in the right place. Stabbing at her with that,” he continued, gesturing toward the hatpin, “is hardly fitting, and might cause a mental collapse.”
The Inspector looked at Curtiz. The poor man had been through much, it did indeed appear as though he was on the edge of some deep precipice. Yet as a friend of his deceased father he had promised to do everything he could to decide this matter one way or the other.
“Is there no location which would go noticed by the general public?” He asked.
Atwill seemed to about to lose his cool. His lips drew thinly over his teeth, his fists clenched at his sides. “These are complete models, Inspector. Perfect in every way, as you can see. What you ask is out of the question, and will spoil the integrity of the piece. I really must insist.”
But Curtiz, sensing that he finally had Atwill on the defensive addressed his enemy directly, “I must know Atwill, I will know!”
If Atwill had expected the Inspector to once again calm the man then he was mistaken. He simply glanced at Atwill, trying to read his expression. It was undeniable, a heavy sweat had formed on the man’s forehead, and there was a nervous twitch by his left eye, bottled emotion beginning to boil over.
“I am trying to see your point of view, Mr. Atwill. But it seems to me that the back of the head, hidden as it is by the hair, would be inconspicuous enough? Or perhaps on the arm beneath the blouse, or leg above the hemline?”
Atwill spoke before the Inspector had even finished, “No, this is not possible, I have done enough, now I must insist you leave!” He spat.
“Never!” It was Curtiz now who once again spoke. He wouldn’t allow this happen, he wouldn’t allow Atwill to insist they leave, he was too close, too close!
Curtiz turned, moved forward, and bounded upon the setting, moving toward the sculpture. Atwill’s voice filled the room, booming out around them, filling the empty spaces. It was a voice full of pain, worry, of grief and regret, “I implore you, Mr Curtiz, for all your love of this woman, let her be! Let her be!”
But it was too late. Curtiz was upon the model, hatpin raised. There was no time to wait, there could be no hesitation, he couldn’t allow the Inspector, and certainly not Atwill, to stop him now. He plunged the hatpin down into the back of the head.
The hatpin struck the surface and Curtiz felt the resistance. Before he could pull back however the hatpin pierced the skin and then pushed on through.
Wax. Hollow wax. The head was an empty shell.
Screaming out, “No! Florence! Florence!” He desperately grabbed at the sleeve of the blouse, pulling it up. Atwill had moved forward, reaching to stop this desecration, but the Inspector, seeing what was going on, stood in his way. Soon it would all be over.
Curtiz stabbed once again. Once again there was an initial resistance and then the hatpin punctured the veneer. Curtiz sobbed, how could this be? Finally he fell to his knees, grabbing at the hem of the dress exposing the models ankles, seeing the birthmark he once again plunged the hatpin in. And, once again, found wax.
At this final act Curtiz broke down, his head falling into his hands, the hatpin falling to the floor. His Florence, his fiancée was gone, gone forever.
Atwill was upon the stage now, his anger had turned to grief and he too was crying, tears welling up and spilling over his cheeks. “No, no.” He sobbed.
The inspector, used to such high emotion waited for a moment, allowing the men to drain themselves of their initial despair. Then he placed his hand upon the Curtiz’s shoulder. “Come on young man, I think the point is proved.”
Cutiz looked up into the Inspectors face, he was spent, it was all too much. He had been sure, so sure. This was Florence, this was his bride to be, the woman he loved. And yet the hatpin. The Inspector was right, the point was proven, but it was almost as though Florence were here at his side. “I’m sorry,” he mumbled, “so sorry.”
The Inspector looked up at Atwill, a seemingly broken man. He must indeed be dedicated to protect his work as he did. The emotions he was showing were very real, heartfelt. It would be useless to stay any longer.
“Mr. Atwill,” he said. “Perhaps you could guide us to the exit.”
Atwill took a deep breath. He had been foolish to allow himself to be seen this way, to see his pawing at the work so possessively. He had promised himself he wouldn’t allow this to happen. He straightened, pulled on the lapels of his jacket, and nodded. “Indeed.” He said.
Both Curtiz and Atwill climbed down from the platform. Curtiz was still sobbing and the Inspector placed his arm around him as they were led back out into the entrance hall. Atwill unlocked the front door, and they stepped into the cold night air. “Thank you for your cooperation, Mr. Atwill, this is the end of the matter I can assure you. Mr. Curtiz will now get the help he requires, I swear it.”
“Yes, yes Inspector.” And then Atwill closed the door and locked it, turning away as the two men climbed into a waiting vehicle. The engine started, and it pulled away from the kerb before Atwill had even reached the curtain separating him from the museum.
Atwill took a deep breath. He was saddened, grief stricken. However now there was work to done, urgent work that he must address immediately. He quickly entered the museum and rushed back to the sculpture. How beautiful she was, how wonderful. Of all his works she was special, this was the image he’d been waiting to conjure his entire life. He removed his gloves, allowing them to fall to the floor.
Climbing upon the setting, tears once again coming to his eyes, his hands trembling in sorrow, he approached the figure. “I’m sorry,” he said. “I’m so sorry.” He carefully ran his fingers over the injuries inflicted by the hatpin, the arm, the back of the head. Soothing them.
Then he leaned forward, taking the figures hand into his own, and lightly kissed its cheek. Mouth to face, warmth to cold.
There was a slight pause, a moment in time that might last forever or only for an instant, and then the figure screamed in pain, and the blood flowed.
My third attempt at short horror fiction!
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“It’s a little embarrassing.” Police Inspector Jackson said. “But if you can help and clear this up, perhaps it’ll calm the young man down.”
Ivon Atwill, owner and proprietor of the wax museum smiled, forever the perfect composed host. “Well, in principle that sounds as though it’s something worth doing.”
The Inspector hesitated, the words “in principle” hung in the air despite the quiet, measured agreement, Ivon Atwill was clearly an intelligent man. “I realize this is a strange request.” He said. “And you’re under no obligation to acquiesce, Mr, Atwill.” He hoped just the hint of authority would persuade the man to help.
“Indeed.” Atwill replied.
They were standing in the foyer of the museum, a small yet rather grand space with four pillars rising up to the high ceiling, each painted bright gold. Red velvet curtains, heavy and long, filled the spaces between the pillars giving three entrances in all. Through the central space was the public area of the museum, through the two others, to their left, office space, and to the right a workshop. A small ticket office was set in the front, directly facing the street.
Atwill cut a prim figure in a smart suit, and white gloved hands. When he had shaken the inspector’s hand he had snatched his own away quickly, as though it were not his way.
Standing beside the Inspector was a young man, Michael Curtiz. Atwill glanced at him, moving his eyes from head to toe in a slow deliberate manner. The man was a pest. He’s badly deteriorated since he’d first visited the gallery. He was somewhat dishevelled, and didn’t look as though he’d slept in days. “Good evening, Mr. Curtiz.” He said, with the same fixed smile.
Curtiz was sprung tight, he made a tiny movement as though he was going to step forward and grab at Atwill’s throat, but before the move could be made Inspector Jackson put his arm between them and addressed Atwill directly, drawing his attention away from the young man. “It’s an unusual request, I know. But I’m sure you understand that it might well be the best, and fastest way, of handling things.”
“Inspector,” Atwill began, his hands forming a pyramid as he spoke. “I’m sure you appreciate that I’m somewhat hesitant. This man,” Atwill nodded toward Curtiz gently, with a slight movement that was barely noticeable, “has been something of a problem on these very premises, and for quite some time too. He has made threats against both myself and one of my exhibits.”
“Yes sir, I appreciate that.”
“My exhibits are the result of painstaking, time consuming work, you understand. They are, not to put too fine a point on it, irreplaceable.”
The Inspector took a deep breath, puffing his chest out, standing a little taller. This was a simple technique intended to give him authority, and to let Atwill know that he could be back at the museum in the morning with a warrant if it really came to it. “It is to that end that this gesture on your part could bring this entire matter to a close. Mr. Curtiz assures me that, should you do as he asks, it would put an end to the matter. He will not return.”
Atwill looked once again at Curtiz. The young man’s eyes were framed in red, he had a wild demeanour, borne of sleepless nights, drink, and desperation. He knew that the man’s fiancé, Florence Dempsey, had gone missing just a few weeks before. He had seen Curtiz and the girl at the museum one evening, and soon after she had disappeared without a trace.
Since it was the last place they had been together Curtiz had returned to the museum shortly afterwards, asking if Florence had ever revisited. Atwill had assured him she hadn’t, but something had brought the young man back time and again, until one day his worst fears were realized. “I’ve seen her in your museum!” Curtiz spat.
They were the first words the man had spoken since arriving with the Inspector.
“I can assure you, young man. Your Miss Dempsey is not here.”
The Inspector was keen for the two not to get into another argument; there had been reported disturbances several times during the week already, with the lady in the ticket booth, with the attendants in the museum. “Mr. Atwill, I’m sure you’ll acknowledge there is a close resemblance to the young woman in question in one of your exhibits.”
Atwill turned his attention from the young man back to the Inspector, “This is a large city, Inspector, yet for an old man like myself who doesn’t get around very much, one must draw inspiration from ones surroundings.” He then turned his glance to the young man, “I have never denied that Miss Dempsey was part of the inspiration in this case.” He added. “But I fail to see how that translates to any crime being committed.”
“Did the woman model for you?” The Inspector asked.
“Just by being.” Atwill replied.
Curtiz fumed, his mind racing. His lack of sleep might have been expected to make him languid, tired, but in fact it had had the opposite effect. He was eager, intolerant, and angry. “No!” He shouted. “It’s too close, too perfect!” He’d wanted to hold back his secret, but now it came tumbling out, “The birthmark on her ankle, you wouldn’t have known about the birthmark on her ankle!”
Ivon Atwill’s expression changed suddenly, the veneer of calculated calm dropping for a second, and then returned as though the change had never taken place at all. The Inspector made a mental note, it couldn’t be true, could it? “Coincidence, Mr. Curtiz.” Atwill replied
“Like hell!” Curtiz barked.
“Inspector, do I have your assurance that this will bring an end to this matter. I am a very busy man, and if this young gentlemen insists on this course of action it could prove quite costly to me.”
The Inspector nodded, and then addressed Curtiz. “I have made it very clear to Mr. Curtiz that this must be the end of it. If there are any further incidents after this point in time then I will be forced to take the most severe action to ensure there can be no further trouble or inconvenience to yourself, Mr. Atwill.”
Ivon Atwill paused for a moment, as though taking the thought in. Then his smile broadened slightly, and he nodded his head, turned and raised his hand as if to welcome new customers. “Very well,” he said. “If this is how it must be, then perhaps we could get on with it. This way gentlemen.” He took a step toward the break in the center curtains, pulling them aside to expose the entrance to the museum exhibits. “I must insist that nothing is touched other then the exhibit in question, they are most valuable.” He added.
“We are only interested in the one work.” The Inspector assured him.
Atwill allowed them to pass and then followed. The work in question was on the back wall, in the corner. Curtiz moved toward it quickly, he eyes transfixed. When he had first seen it he had cried out and fallen to his knees in anguish. Raking sobs had consumed him as the other visitors had looked on aghast. This had led to his being asked to leave, and when he had tried to return one, two, three times, he had been denied access.
At the sight of her, exactly as he had remembered, every bit of despair and tiredness was brought to the surface. How he’d missed her. She haunted his every thought, he’d seen her countless times out of the corner of his eye, walking the streets, sitting in tea shops, standing outside stores looking through the windows at jewellery and clothes. A ghost going through her motions, and then gone.
He knew something terrible had happened to her, had happened to her here. She was never coming back, and he must know why. “Florence!” He wailed, as he reached the enhibit.
The sculpture towered over him, raised high from the marble floor by its setting. She was even dressed in clothes she’d have liked. Her arms were outstretched, her mouth open in full voice. How could Atwill have known she was an opera singer, how could he have posed her thus if he hadn’t spent time with her? And if this was an innocent coincidence, why was he denying she had posed?
“Florence!” He wailed again, making a move to step up and hold her.
“Inspector,” Atwill commanded, “I must insist this young man controls himself. If we are to do this then it must be done carefully, and without substantial damage being done.”
“We understand,” The inspector said, raising his voice to draw the attention of the young man, to draw him back and exert control, “don’t we Mr. Curtiz.”
Curtiz hesitated, half up on the platform. Yes, he could wait, soon the museum proprietor would be exposed. He stepped back down. “I understand, but when we confirm my suspicions he will have a lot of explaining to do.”
They all now stood before the sculpture. The Inspector was looking at the hands, the face, the eyes. Although he had no doubt the young man was losing his mind and making an absurd accusation, he had to admit there was something about the work. Of course a master sculptor was expert in making lifelike figures, but this one almost seemed to breathe. The skin almost glistened with a fine layer of sweat, as though it were a young woman caught in time.
“And what is the nature of our experiment?” Atwill asked.
“Well,” the Inspector began, loosening his posture, knowing he would need extraordinary cooperation to go ahead. “I was rather hoping you could suggest ways in which this young man’s accusation might be addressed to his satisfaction. Is there any thing you can think of?”
Atwill breathed in, pouted and moved his head slightly. “I’m not sure inspector. The exhibits are rather fragile, they really don’t like being moved, and sometimes don’t survive if they are.”
The Inspector gave a small cough, “If I might enquire, is the model complete?” He asked.
“Complete?”
“Well,” the inspector knew Atwill had understood, but he was forcing him to say the words. “What I mean is, is it fully, anatomically…”
Atwill interrupted him, relieving him of his embarrassment. “You mean is the torso fully sculpted too?” He asked.
“Yes.”
“I can assure you Inspector, she is,” he let the words drift to allow some dignity to fill the space, “a finished piece of work. You see, we offer an illusion here, a unique and very special life. Any obvious compromise shows. Believe me, while it might seem excessive to someone untrained, like yourself, if she were not complete then our more refined customers would know. It is what we are known for, a complete person.”
The Inspector frowned at Atwill’s use of words, ‘a complete person’?
“Well, how can we prove that this is not, in fact, the young woman in question?”
“Standing here covered in wax.” Atwill added, allowing himself to laugh.
Curtiz tensed, he wouldn’t allow these men to talk about such things, not when the stakes were so high. Despite everything he still hoped Florence could somehow be saved, that all was not lost. At the very least he could have closure.
Frantically Curtiz glanced around him, looking at the floor, the walls. His eyes settled on another sculpture just behind him. It was of a women standing in the setting of a hallway, dressing. A large hat was upon her head, her hand raised with hatpin between fingers. He rushed forward, jumped up upon the setting, and snatched at the hatpin, finding it was real, the cold metal in his grasp.
“Mr. Curtiz!” Atwill shouted. “Please take care of Charlotte!” He took a step forward, all composure gone. “Inspector, I took your word that you would control this man, I hope I won’t regret it!”
The Inspector moved with the men, standing between them. “Mr. Curtiz, I must insist upon your keeping complete control of yourself. Mr. Atwill has been most cooperative and understanding thus far, but if you act this way I’ll be forced to arrest you.”
For a moment Curtiz seemed to deflate. His nerve was going, as though he were about to wake into a bad dream. He had to save Florence, he had to do whatever it takes. But he must remain calm, it would only be a matter of moments before Atwill was exposed. “I’m sorry.” He said. “I must know.”
Atwill softened, “Perhaps Mr. Curtiz could tell us what he has in mind?”
However it was obvious to them all. Curtiz had intended to use the hatpin to stab into the sculpture. If the model was indeed wax, then it would be clear, he’d be able to push the hatpin all the way through. If however, as Curtiz suspected, there was only a thin veneer of wax, then it too would be exposed, along with Atwill himself!
The inspector moved his eyes from the hatpin to the proprietor. “Would a hatpin cause significant damage?” He asked.
“Inspector,” Atwill responded, “these works are my life, my marvels! Piercing them is out of the question!”
“But I fail to see a better way of confirming things.”’ The Inspector replied. “We do all agree that this must end tonight, before things get further out of hand? I’d dislike having to come back and demanding more obtrusive action be taken.”
Atwill bristled, looking a little nervous. “I don’t think you fully understand what you’re asking, Inspector. This young man loves the girl, and I’m sure that his heart is in the right place. Stabbing at her with that,” he continued, gesturing toward the hatpin, “is hardly fitting, and might cause a mental collapse.”
The Inspector looked at Curtiz. The poor man had been through much, it did indeed appear as though he was on the edge of some deep precipice. Yet as a friend of his deceased father he had promised to do everything he could to decide this matter one way or the other.
“Is there no location which would go noticed by the general public?” He asked.
Atwill seemed to about to lose his cool. His lips drew thinly over his teeth, his fists clenched at his sides. “These are complete models, Inspector. Perfect in every way, as you can see. What you ask is out of the question, and will spoil the integrity of the piece. I really must insist.”
But Curtiz, sensing that he finally had Atwill on the defensive addressed his enemy directly, “I must know Atwill, I will know!”
If Atwill had expected the Inspector to once again calm the man then he was mistaken. He simply glanced at Atwill, trying to read his expression. It was undeniable, a heavy sweat had formed on the man’s forehead, and there was a nervous twitch by his left eye, bottled emotion beginning to boil over.
“I am trying to see your point of view, Mr. Atwill. But it seems to me that the back of the head, hidden as it is by the hair, would be inconspicuous enough? Or perhaps on the arm beneath the blouse, or leg above the hemline?”
Atwill spoke before the Inspector had even finished, “No, this is not possible, I have done enough, now I must insist you leave!” He spat.
“Never!” It was Curtiz now who once again spoke. He wouldn’t allow this happen, he wouldn’t allow Atwill to insist they leave, he was too close, too close!
Curtiz turned, moved forward, and bounded upon the setting, moving toward the sculpture. Atwill’s voice filled the room, booming out around them, filling the empty spaces. It was a voice full of pain, worry, of grief and regret, “I implore you, Mr Curtiz, for all your love of this woman, let her be! Let her be!”
But it was too late. Curtiz was upon the model, hatpin raised. There was no time to wait, there could be no hesitation, he couldn’t allow the Inspector, and certainly not Atwill, to stop him now. He plunged the hatpin down into the back of the head.
The hatpin struck the surface and Curtiz felt the resistance. Before he could pull back however the hatpin pierced the skin and then pushed on through.
Wax. Hollow wax. The head was an empty shell.
Screaming out, “No! Florence! Florence!” He desperately grabbed at the sleeve of the blouse, pulling it up. Atwill had moved forward, reaching to stop this desecration, but the Inspector, seeing what was going on, stood in his way. Soon it would all be over.
Curtiz stabbed once again. Once again there was an initial resistance and then the hatpin punctured the veneer. Curtiz sobbed, how could this be? Finally he fell to his knees, grabbing at the hem of the dress exposing the models ankles, seeing the birthmark he once again plunged the hatpin in. And, once again, found wax.
At this final act Curtiz broke down, his head falling into his hands, the hatpin falling to the floor. His Florence, his fiancée was gone, gone forever.
Atwill was upon the stage now, his anger had turned to grief and he too was crying, tears welling up and spilling over his cheeks. “No, no.” He sobbed.
The inspector, used to such high emotion waited for a moment, allowing the men to drain themselves of their initial despair. Then he placed his hand upon the Curtiz’s shoulder. “Come on young man, I think the point is proved.”
Cutiz looked up into the Inspectors face, he was spent, it was all too much. He had been sure, so sure. This was Florence, this was his bride to be, the woman he loved. And yet the hatpin. The Inspector was right, the point was proven, but it was almost as though Florence were here at his side. “I’m sorry,” he mumbled, “so sorry.”
The Inspector looked up at Atwill, a seemingly broken man. He must indeed be dedicated to protect his work as he did. The emotions he was showing were very real, heartfelt. It would be useless to stay any longer.
“Mr. Atwill,” he said. “Perhaps you could guide us to the exit.”
Atwill took a deep breath. He had been foolish to allow himself to be seen this way, to see his pawing at the work so possessively. He had promised himself he wouldn’t allow this to happen. He straightened, pulled on the lapels of his jacket, and nodded. “Indeed.” He said.
Both Curtiz and Atwill climbed down from the platform. Curtiz was still sobbing and the Inspector placed his arm around him as they were led back out into the entrance hall. Atwill unlocked the front door, and they stepped into the cold night air. “Thank you for your cooperation, Mr. Atwill, this is the end of the matter I can assure you. Mr. Curtiz will now get the help he requires, I swear it.”
“Yes, yes Inspector.” And then Atwill closed the door and locked it, turning away as the two men climbed into a waiting vehicle. The engine started, and it pulled away from the kerb before Atwill had even reached the curtain separating him from the museum.
Atwill took a deep breath. He was saddened, grief stricken. However now there was work to done, urgent work that he must address immediately. He quickly entered the museum and rushed back to the sculpture. How beautiful she was, how wonderful. Of all his works she was special, this was the image he’d been waiting to conjure his entire life. He removed his gloves, allowing them to fall to the floor.
Climbing upon the setting, tears once again coming to his eyes, his hands trembling in sorrow, he approached the figure. “I’m sorry,” he said. “I’m so sorry.” He carefully ran his fingers over the injuries inflicted by the hatpin, the arm, the back of the head. Soothing them.
Then he leaned forward, taking the figures hand into his own, and lightly kissed its cheek. Mouth to face, warmth to cold.
There was a slight pause, a moment in time that might last forever or only for an instant, and then the figure screamed in pain, and the blood flowed.