A Sharpness On The Neck (Saberhagen's Dracula Book 9), Fred Saberhagen [some good books to read TXT] 📗

for all their cunning efforts, did not get wind of the great plot involving a key person in the matter of executions: the executioner himself.

      Methodically I provided my trembling client with more details of the deception. My vampiric strength had enabled me to handle the box containing his live, unconscious body as if it were empty. To prevent onlookers from noticing that Radcliffe’s “corpse” still had a head, that wicker box was transported with its contents directly to the cemetery rather than being dumped into a cart at the base of the guillotine, where its contents would have been exposed.

      The cart driver, who was partially in on the plot, had dumped Radcliffe’s body, still living and intact, in a place somewhat apart from that where he conveyed the quieter majority of his load.

      “I suppose you may have been starting to come round by the time they put you in the tumbril, or maybe even a little before that. My intention was to spare you that, but … I suppose Constantia failed to give you any clear explanation of our plan.”

      “You mean I’m not a … a…”

      I bowed to him slightly. “I trust you will survive the disappointment. You have not yet been honored with the opportunity to join the illustrious race of the nosferatu.”

* * *

      The plan as designed had called for either Melanie or Marie to pick up the wax head in the cemetery, as well as seek out Radcliffe there, and, if he was in sufficient possession of his wits, give him his forged papers and some new clothes. But the panicky wagon driver, working in darkness, had dumped him in the wrong place. Then Philip, on recovering his wits, had taken himself away, and Marie, arriving an hour or so late, unavoidably delayed, hadn’t been able to find him.

* * *

      Radcliffe, listening in the storeroom, was not yet wholly satisfied. He kept feeling his neck, turning and nodding his head, as if he feared they might still somehow come apart. “But … there was blood spurting, gushing … I remember that.”

      “Your eyes were easily deceived; and so were my brother Radu’s, in glaring daylight and at a little distance. What you saw was not exactly blood. Just now when you were looking at your head, there on the shelf—no doubt you took notice of the tubes.”

      They had been fabricated from what was then called caoutchouc, an early form of industrial rubber. With such tubes and a couple of bladders inside the dummy, it had proven eminently possible to create the appropriate brief jets of “blood.”

      And of course the wax model of Radcliffe’s head had been provided with an internal cavity, filled with a liquid having much the appearance of fresh blood. So that when the executioner’s tall assistant lifted it out carefully, by the short dark hair, the red flow drained out visibly for the crowd to watch.

      “Real blood of course would have coagulated and changed color long before we were ready to use it. Coming up with a good substitute required some effort, but Constantia and I know something of the subject. We settled on the reddish juice of blood oranges, darkened with a little something else.”

      I thumped the wax head familiarly on the temple. “Now that this object has served its primary purpose, and perhaps after it is carried in some parade as an illustration of Revolutionary justice, there seems no reason why it should not go on display along with the others in the museum. Perhaps as the head of some minor anonymous figure in one of the groupings. But I believe Marie will want to do some retouching on it first. The tubes, of course, should go. They might make someone suspicious.”

* * *

      Today, as on most days, the museum opened early in the morning, and already there were customers out in the public rooms. Radcliffe, listening to them from the storeroom, thought it plain that they took seriously their concerns about whether the wax effigies were really up-to-date and accurate. The political correctness of the display was of perhaps vital importance to the proprietors.

      “The day quickly grows bright, and it is time for me to seek a deeper shadow—where I can wait.” I looked about thoughtfully.

      Radcliffe was on the point of asking, but did not, just what his mentor was intending to wait for.

      Before dropping into obscurity, I reminded Radcliffe of the next step in the plan, and handed him some money and a set of beautifully forged identity papers; he was now Citizen Joseph Tallien, a native of Martinique. A wardrobe in the storeroom provided him with a change of clothes.

      The young man’s eyes grew wide as he looked at the money—gold coin, as well as Revolutionary assignats; the latter were almost worthless, but good Revolutionary patriots carried them about. For the purpose of bribes, the old gold coin was much preferred—even though possession of it was seriously illegal. Only precious stones were more readily accepted.

      “Sir, this is very generous.”

      “Tut tut.” I waved a hand dismissively. “I am not a poor man—and there is nowhere I would rather spend my money than in the game of discomfiting my brother. Now, you will find the lady you are seeking at Tom Paine’s house—or, if not there, at another house nearby, whose address I have jotted down. If you must go to that neighboring dwelling, ask for Citizen Gabriel Sanson.”

      “Gabriel—?” Radcliffe recoiled slightly. “You are joking!”

      “Not a bit. It should be obvious that our little show on the scaffold depended utterly on that young man’s cooperation.”

      “Will he be at home?”

      I shrugged, and squinted at the sun-bright window. “It seems more likely, at this hour, that he is at work.”

* * *

      Several hours later, secure in his new identity and boldly asking directions of passersby as he entered the quiet suburban neighborhood, the American found himself standing before a neat little cottage on a quiet, tree-shaded street. There were no street signs near, no clamoring crowds,