C (13:28)
Yes, well, for a start, I don't think the level of my armchair facing friend board dead. Yeah. I think I like him a lot less than the others. The dim unwavering light fell on the rows of figures which were so uncannily like human beings that the stillness and the silence seemed unnatural, ghastly. Even Houston missed the sound of the reading, the rustling of clothes. 101 minute noises 1 hears when even the deepest silence has fallen upon a crowd. The air was as stagnant as water at the bottom of a standing pool. Not a breath in the chamber to stir a curtain or rustle a hanging drapery or star to shadow. Must be like this at the bottom of the sea. Have to work that into the story somehow. Like the bottom of the sea. Sinister not. I must say, even Armstrong doesn't look quite such a harmless country gentleman now. Still your only wax works. All would be well, thought Hewson. Yet somehow what prevented him most of all from feeling absolutely comfortable was the knowledge that Dr. Burdett was directly behind him. He knew in fact that the little Frenchman's waxen stare was directed at the back of his neck. He itched for the desire to turn around. Come on, my nerves have started already. If I turn and look at that dressed up dummy, it'll be an admission of funk. It's because you're afraid that you won't turn and look at him. Rubbish. Not afraid at all. Yes, you are. Rot. Complete nut of rot. Afraid a lot of waxworks. Not of a lot of waxworks, just one. Dr. Bourdette. French fool. Not so healthy now, is he? Look at his eyes. Don't want to see his eyes. All the same, he had to eventually have a quick look round at Dr. Gaudette. Only a wax work, like a rest on. They're all only waxworks. All the same. He took another quick look behind him. Now, it did not worry Hewson too much, because it was, after all, only his imagination. But there seemed to be a subtle change in the grouping of the figures around Dr. Burdett. Or was it Dr. Burdett himself? Huh? Looking to the front of him, he looked at Crippin again. He had the slight feeling that something somewhere was a bit different. Crippin seemed, for instance, to have turned one degree to the left. Must have been move my chair a bit. Not Crippin. It was me you moved. And just then, the waxwork of gray moved a hand. At least, Houston thought the hand moved. Just for his own peace of mind, Raymond Houson gave the waxen figure a little poke. Wax. No more, no less. Lifeless, lifelike wax. And they tell me the editors have no imagination. But like some notes, Deathly silence. Yeah. Unearthly stillness. Other figures. Then he turned suddenly and looked over his right shoulder. He had neither seen or 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 vacantly back, as if to say, it wasn't I. Course it wasn't you. Wasn't any of you. And then he looked back, and Crippin seemed to have shifted his position slightly. Mmm. Can't trust that little beggar. Can't trust any of them. Once you take your eyes off them, they move. Not good enough. This isn't I write having ongoing. Not gonna spend a night with a lot of waxworks who move when you aren't looking at them. No, Houston, please. They can't move. What are you thinking of? He encountered the mild, baleful stare of poor debt. Almost got you that time, Crippen. All the rest of you, too. I do see one of you move off, I'll smash you to pieces. Smash you? Experienced enough already to write my story. Ten stories, for that matter. Morning Echo. Wouldn't know how long I'd stayed if I cleared out now. As long as the story's good. Yes. That watchman up there, he pulled my leg all right. And perhaps the manager wouldn't give me the five or two. Find out all right how long I was here. From the watchman. Rose will laugh about this. I'd tell her. You asleep, Rose girl? Or awake thinking of me? Can't have Rose laughing at me. Kids will pull my leg too. Yeah. Nothing worse than. Worse than having someone's breathing. Someone was breathing. It wasn't me. They knew I was listening. Then they. And then they stopped. Here. It's the dead. This is too much. Bad enough when they move when I'm not looking. But I'm not having the viggers breathing too. No, it won't do. I am Raymond Hewson, unsuccessful journalist, but a living and breathing man. And these figures grouped around me are only dummies. Dummies. What does it matter if they're lifelike wax and sawdust for the entertainment of morbid sightseers and orange sucking curry. Then the gaze of Dr. Burdette urged, challenged and finally compelled him to turn. Huh? Hewson stared into those dreadful hypnotic eyes. His own eyes were dilated and his mouth at first set into a grin of terror, lifted at the corners into a snout. You moved blasty. Yes, you did. I saw you. I saw you. Doctor Baudette's movements were quite leisurely. He stepped off his pedestal with the mincing movements of a lady alighting from a bus. I needed to do that. Not until I overhead the conversation between yourself and my 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 perfectly well. Something tells me that you are, shall I say, nervous. My dear sir? No illusions. I am not one of these contemptible little effigies suddenly come to life. I am Dr. Bourdet himself. Pardon me, but Steve, let me explain. Circumstances with which I did not fatigue. You have made it desirable that I should live in England. I was close to the building this evening when I saw a policeman regarding me. Thought too curiously, I guess, that he intended to follow me and perhaps ask him parising questions. So I mingled with the crowd and came in here. 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 will be wearing, donned it, hid my effigy behind the platform at the back there and took its place on the pedestal I own. I have spent the most fatiguing evening. The world is divided into collectors and non collectors. The collectors collect anything according to their own individual tastes. I collect throats. And the doctor regarded Hewson's throat with interest, mingled with disfavor. My activities of late have been curtailed. I am glad, though, of the pleasant opportunity of gratifying my somewhat unusual whim. I should never have selected you from choice, of course. No, I like men. Thick necks. Thick red necks. This is a little French razor. The blade, you will observe, is very narrow. It does not cut very deep, but deep enough in just one little moment. You should see for yourself. I shall ask you the little civil question of all polite barbers. Does the razor suit you, sir? You will have the goodness to raise your chin a little. Thank you. And a little more. Just a little more. Thank you. Merci, monsieur. Ah, merci. Mercy. 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 by the crowds who would presently wander fearfully among them in their midst. In the center gangway, Houston sat still leaning far back in his armchair. His chin was up, tilted, as if he were expecting to receive attention from a barber. And although there was not a scratch upon his throat, nor indeed anywhere upon his whole body, he was cold and quite dead. His previous employers were wrong in having him credited. With no imagination, Dr. Baudette, 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.
