'It is ironic, Herr Poe.' Ewers said. 'We are truly doubles, mirror images, doppelgänger. When the war began, I was in your country, in New York City ...'
'I have ceased to regard Federal America as my country, sir. I lost my nationality at Appomattox.'
'As you wish. I too was frustrated, as you must be now. I too was a poet, an essayist, a visionary, a novelist of sensation, a philosopher. I have conquered new fields of art, including the kinematograph. Employed by my Kaiser as a lobbyist, my efforts were insufficient to prevent the misunderstanding that exists between the New World and the Old. I was interned in and deported. I have long wanted to meet you, Herr Poe.'
Poe fixed Ewers's eye and found something lacking. He was a half-formed imitation, exaggerated to compensate for inner deficiencies.
'I once considered instituting a lawsuit against you, Herr Ewers,' Poe said, plainly. ' The Student of Prague, a photoplay which you signed, is an arrant plagiarism of my tale "William Wilson".'
Ewers was slapped by the accusation but recovered in an eyeblink. 'No more, surely, than your "William Wilson" is plagiarism of E.T.A. Hoffmann.'
'There is no comparison,' Poe said coldly.
Ewers smiled. Poe was struck by the man's detestability. His manner was as contrived, ungainly and fraudulent as his fictions. It was entirely fitting that he should work in motion pictures. There was a vulgarity about the stuttering, posturing, face-pulling foolery of the kinema that stuck to Ewers like mud.
'The case of Edgar Poe is under review,' Kafka reminded Ewers, holding up a thick folder of papers.
'No,' Ewers said, gripping the folder's edge with undead strength. 'As far as you are concerned, the case of Edgar Poe is concluded. Germany has need of him, and Prague will surrender him to me, as representative of Kaiser and court.'
Kafka's eyes wavered. Poe was unsure but it seemed the clerk was wavering out of concern for him.
A one-legged man, face hooded, stumped by, a basket slung upon his back like a peasant's pannier, half full of stopped watches.
'Herr Poe,' Ewers said. 'It has been decided you are just the man for a certain task of great national importance ...'
'A tune has been changed, Herr Ewers. I've a distinguished military record in my former country, including study at West Point Academy, but my attempts to volunteer for the armies of the Empires were ungraciously rebuffed. Though I am an internationally recognised authority on the conduct of modern warfare, my many letters of suggestion to Generals von Moltke, von Falkenhayn, Ludendorff and von Hindenburg have gone unacknowledged ...'
'In the name of the Kaiser and the Graf von Dracula, I extend the apologies of a nation,' Ewers announced, sticking out his hand as if offering a benediction.
Kafka's eyes darted between Poe and Ewers. Poe's impression was that the Jew shared his opinion of the German but had more empirical evidence to justify his dislike.
'What do you wait for?' Ewers snapped at Kafka. 'Herr Poe is an important man. Give him travel papers. We are expected in Berlin tomorrow.'
Kafka opened his folder and handed over a document.
'You won't need this any more,' Ewers said, clawing at Poe's sleeve, ripping away his armband. 'From now on, you are as safe in the Empires as if you were a pure-blood German.'
At a stroke, Poe felt himself transformed again.
6
Mata Hari
The prisoner had welcomed Beauregard's request that he be allowed to see her. Even were he not continuing the Malinbois investigation, he would have been inclined to pay a call. He had given evidence at her trial but they had never been introduced.
To step out of the staff car on to the parade ground was to set foot in a cemetery. The condemned woman was held in a barracks near Paris, long out of regular use, tenants gone to feed the war. The uncurtained windows of the long halls were dusty. Only one dormitory was inhabited. Eight men, pulled from the front to serve as a firing squad, slept in peace and comfort. To them, this must be a relief.
The night was black as ink. Like a warm convict, the prisoner was to be shot at dawn. Sunset would be a more appropriate execution hour for a vampire.
A lone light burned in an office. Beauregard rapped on a door. Lantier, a veteran with half a face, opened up and invited him in. Without a hint of insubordination, the turnkey made it clear he resented having his night disturbed by visitors pandering to the whims of an enemy of France.
Lantier looked over Beauregard's authorisation papers, clucking at each distinguished signature. At length, he decided in Beauregard's favour and ordered that the Englishman be allowed into the cell. A lecture was delivered in rapid French about the degree of intercourse allowed with the woman. There was to be no physical contact, no object was to be passed from one to the other.
The vampire's reputation was bound to outlive her. This fuss fed the greatly exaggerated stories they were telling. It was in the interests of the lady's 'victims' that she be considered irresistible, lest it be decided they had a degree of culpability in her feats of espionage. Surely, no ordinary woman could extract secrets from so many of the great and good. This was an extreme case of the brand of fascination vampires were popularly supposed to be able to exert over their helpless prey.
Of the officers whose names had come up in testimony at her closed trial, most who still lived remained on active service. Only a few insignificant lieutenants had been swept down with her. Even now, the odious General Mireau planned his next offensive.
It had been seriously suggested that the soldiers assigned to this detail be maimed veterans unmanned by the war. Following Lantier's slow progress to the cells, he wondered if the crackpot notion had been implemented. If so, it displayed an alarming ignorance of the physical act of vampirism.
Lantier opened a stout door and stood aside, allowing him into the cell. It was an unpainted room with barely the atmosphere of a cupboard.
The prisoner sat by a small window, looking at the last of the moon. With her hair roughly cropped and in a shapeless cotton dress, she did not resemble the jewelled seductress who had carried all Paris with her.
She turned to look at him and was indeed beautiful. She claimed to be half-Javanese, but Beauregard knew she was the daughter of a Dutch hatter and his provincial wife. After turning, her eyes had changed. She had slit pupils like a cat. The effect was enormously striking.
'Madame Zelle?' he enquired, politely but without need.
She stood graciously and acknowledged him. 'Mr Beauregard.'
He considered her extended, pale hand and shrugged.
'Regulations,' he explained, weakly.
The prisoner attempted a smile. 'Of course. Touch me and you would be my slave. You would overpower the guards and fight to the death to aid my escape.'
'Something like that.'
'How silly.'
A chair was brought for him by the turnkey. She resumed her own chair and he sat down.
'So you are the clever Englishman who caught me?'
'I am afraid so.'
'Why afraid? Did you not do your duty?'
Before the war, he had seen her famous Javanese Dance of Death. She was no Isadora and whoever schooled her was no Diaghilev, but the powerful effect she had on an audience, whether general or private, General or Private, could not be denied.
'You are an honourable English patriot and I am an unprincipled Dutch adventuress. Is that not true?'
'It is not for me to say, Madame.'
Her eyes were growing larger. There was cold, undirected anger in them. But also something else.