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"N-no, never. In any case, definitely not in recent years. If you want, let's go to my trailer, and I will show you all documenta
tion on attractions and the lists of employees. I have a legal business, and I don't deal with anything shady."

"He's lying!" Mike shouted in despair. "They simply smelled trouble and dismantled the ride!"

"Seems to me, this guy is obviously out of his head," said Dobbins. "Do you see any traces of a ride here? Perhaps we also specially grew this grass?"

The grass, yellowed by the sun, indeed didn't look like yesterday-planted. As well as the dry firm soil did not resemble recently laid turf.

Hopkins looked at the old slumped garbage, then at Mike's confused face.

"Nevertheless let's wait until this place is examined by our dog," the sergeant uttered. "Thomson, stay here. Don't let any
body destroy evidence. And we'll go with Mr. Dobbins to look at the documents."

Again having exited from the bushes on the other side of thickets, Mike paid attention to what he hadn't noticed at once: the wooden pole stood in the same place, but there was no "Cave of Horror" sign on it.

The sergeant followed Dobbins to his trailer, having left Lawrence "to keep an eye on surroundings and on our impressionable young man as well." By his tone and the look which accompanied this remark, Mike understood that now he was suspected in something worse than false testimony.

"Think of me how you want," he fatalistically murmured, "but I really was in this 'cave.' And Jane, too."

"Sure, sure," Lawrence nodded.

Mike sat down on the grass, rested his elbows against his knees, squeezed his temples with his fists, and stared at the ground. He didn't know how much time passed until he heard hasty steps and a dog panting. A big black dog, which probably had been given something of Jane's to smell, virtually dragged a police canine officer after it; the lead was stretched bar-taut. Lawrence made a sign to the canine officer, obviously, wishing the dog to sniff Mike. The dog obeyed the command, but without any enthusiasm–thus confirming that during the last few last days Mike hadn't met the missing girl–and then again pulled the lead towards the path through the bushes. In just seconds the officer and his dog disappeared in the thickets. If it had not concerned his girl, Mike could have looked at Lawrence in triumph.

And then from the bushes a dreadful howl came.

"Shit!" Lawrence muttered, bringing a walkie-talkie to his mouth. "John, what's there?"

"No big deal," reached the voice through the howls. "Just this damned dog... I don't know what happened to him. He refuses even to approach this glade. Balked and no way. Even shat from fear, can you imagine? Never I saw him like that before. Now he just sits and howls."

Hopkins came out of the trailer.

"What's this concert?" he frowned.

Lawrence explained.

"What a damned nuisance... " the sergeant murmured. "All Dobbins' papers are OK, and they don't contain the slightest hint of any 'Cave of Horror.' And... I can't say this guy seemed to me a paragon of courtesy, but, in my opinion, he isn't lying. So it looks like it's time to put handcuffs on our boy again. But there is still something strange. I just got a call from the station. All whom you, Mike, described as victims, are indeed in the lists of missing persons. And their cases usually didn't get much media coverage so it isn't clear where you could learn about them... But you know, Mike, what's the most interesting? All of them disappeared at different times. Some a year ago, some six, and some even thirty years ago. But they look, according to your words, the same as at the moment of their disappearance. How do you explain it, Mike?"

Mike knew how to explain it. He knew it as clearly as the fact that it was useless to din it into Hopkins. He knew that neither dummies nor imitators have anything to do with it, and that he nevermore would see Jane. Because his girlfriend was dead... worse than simply dead. Much, much worse. If THEY are capable of living after death, what could prevent them from dooming their victims to the same? Isn't it the ultimate dream of every sadist–the victim incapable of escaping even through death?

Behind the bushes in the anxiety born of hopeless horror the dog still howled.

HOUSE

"Monsieur, Count de Montreux wants to see you."

Jacques Dubois fastidiously frowned.

"Tell him that I can't receive him."

But the visitor, having resolutely moved the servant out of his way, had already entered the office. The thin lines of his thoroughbred face, a faultless suit, the subtle scent of an expensive lotion–everything about him spoke of his belonging to an old noble family which had nothing in common with the just-bought baronies of the nouveau riche; such attributes are formed by centuries. Even now de Montreux carried himself with dignity which did not well match the purpose of his visit.

"If you came to ask for a delay, count, you are wasting time," Dubois stated. "The term of your mortgage has expired, you haven't paid the money, and the house becomes mine by right."

"Nobody challenges your rights, monsieur," de Montreux answered, "I only ask you to understand my position. My ancestors lived in this house throughout three centuries. I understand your desire to obtain a fine old mansion and you are rich enough to do it. But besides my estate, there are others..."

"I like yours; let's finish with this."

"Monsieur Dubois, I'm not asking you to cancel my debts. You will receive the money, only a bit later, as soon as my circumstances recover..."

"Your circumstances will never recover and if you don't understand that, you're even a bigger fool than I thought."

"How dare you to speak to me that way!"

"I dare, Monsieur Armand Philippe Count de Montreux! I, the pitiful insignificant commoner on whose ancestors your an
cestors could set the dogs just for entertainment, now speak with you as I like, and you will listen to me! You ruled France throughout centuries, gambled away huge fortunes out of boredom, and arranged Caligula-style orgies. You possessed everything–power, honor, women–but now your time is gone! You stupidly squandered the wealth stolen by your ancestors in crusades and feudal wars and wasted the life earnings extorted from those who earned their bread by the sweat of their brow–and now power has passed from you to those who actually deserve it. The third estate is everything, have you heard those words? In your aristocratic arrogance you didn't wish to lift a finger to save the situation; you despised commerce–oh certainly, to ply a trade is much less honorable than to rape peasant girls. Look at yourself, Count de Montreux! Even now, having reached utter ruin, you spend your last few francs on expensive suits and lotions! No, I feel not the slightest remorse taking your house from you. I receive it justly, I pay for it with money honestly earned, not inherited from a court lickspittle or from a robber in knight's armor."

The face of the count turned pale, his hand squeezed the knob of his cane, but de Montreux restrained himself. He turned abruptly and went back to the door. On the threshold he stopped and said almost indifferently:

"You will have no rest in my house. Neither you, nor your whore." Then he promptly left.

"Whore," thought Dubois, grinning, "yes, whore, so what? You'd think that his aristocratic maidens are pure virgins. In the whole history of France there was only one virgin, and even she was burned in a fire..." Dubois believed that in the field of wit he also did not yield an inch to the frequenters of aristocratic salons. His thoughts turned to Jeannette. He really had picked her up on the street–at the very beginning of her career, before the charm of youth could fade under the burden of her profession. Jeannette had lived with him for half a year already–and lived very well, as all these ruined countesses could only envy; she probably even herself remembered with surprise now the times when she had been a street prostitute. Recently she, perhaps, had gotten too spoiled and began to affect whims, but Dubois even found a spe
cial pleasure in it: to a man who from his early childhood had gotten used to making his way in life with teeth and claws, humility quickly becomes boring.

Dubois took a watch on a gold chain out of his pocket, darted a glance at the dial and stood up from the table. Tomorrow at this time, he thought, Jeannette would possibly feel herself al
most a countess de Montreux.

The carriage passed through the gate decorated with the de Montreux coat of arms; the wheels crunched on the access avenue gravel. Having drawn back the window curtain, Jeannette was examining with curiosity her new dwelling, or, as Dubois called it, "the country house." The old three-storied mansion resembled more a fortress than a residence; its massive walls, accreted by moss at the bases, its narrow–especially in the eastern wing–windows, hiding in deep niches, its heavy shutters and doors gloomily contrasted with the cheerful summer sky and bright sun. Even the lush green of the garden  inspired an ominous feeling, as if it was marsh grass hiding a deadly quagmire.

"It doesn't look too cozy here," said Jeannette doubtfully.

"The main building was constructed in the sixteenth century," Dubois answered in an expert tone, "and those were rather troubled times. Since then, of course, the house has been repaired and reconstructed more than once. But, nevertheless, this is the authentic home of a noble family. You will live here like a countess."

Jeannette answered nothing; she had no illusions about her future and understood that sooner or later she would bore Dubois and he would take a new "countess"–or even perhaps he would take a truly noble wife to live in his authentic aristocratic home. However, during the last half a year she had saved some money and also hoped for a generous parting gift; and then, of course, she would find another nouveau riche for whom the physical properties of a woman would be more important than her reputa
tion.

On a porch they were met by Pierre Leroi, the majordomo employed by the new owner. Other servants gathered in the hall. Dubois dismissed them with an impatient gesture and said to Leroi, "Show us the house."

"Yes, monsieur," bowed the majordomo, "but maybe madam wishes to rest after the journey?"

Jeannette smiled. She had been called "madam," as if she indeed was the wedded wife of the owner of the estate.

"Madam will rest later," Dubois said. "Guide us."

"As you wish, monsieur."

They passed through a tenebrous hall with age-darkened portraits on the walls and a huge fireplace similar to an ancient tower, and then ascended a creaking wooden staircase to the second floor. Having passed some rooms whose furniture, apparently, hadn't been changed since the time of Louis XV, they stopped in front of a massive oak door.

"The count's office," the majordomo declared and pulled on the heavy bronze handle. However, the door didn't open.

"Strange... " murmured Leroi, "I remember that I left the door unlocked."

"Don't you have a key with you?" asked Dubois with a note of irritation in his voice.

"Yes, certainly... " the majordomo unlocked the door.

At the last moment in Dubois's brain a thought flashed that something was definitely wrong here, and he almost rudely moved Jeannette aside. In the next instant the door silently opened. In the middle of the room, facing the door, sat count de Montreux in an armchair. The shot had demolished half of his skull; his surroundings were splashed with blood and grayish drops of brain. The hand with the pistol powerlessly dangled from an armrest.

"What is it?" asked Jeannette with apprehensive curiosity, uncertainly trying to peer over Dubois's shoulder. He pushed her aside from the office.

"Nothing you should look at. De Montreux... he shot him
self to annoy us."

Jeannette gasped in horror.

"Don't worry. Certainly, it's unpleasant, but nothing terrible has happened. People die every day in the thousands," Dubois turned to the majordomo. "How the hell did he get in here?"

"I do not know, monsieur," Leroi made a helpless gesture. "Certainly, the count had keys to all the doors and the main en
trance is not the only way into the house. He could even have entered before the arrival of the new servants and hidden somewhere..."

"How could nobody hear the shot?"

"You see the heavy doors and thick walls here. If nobody was nearby, there is no wonder it was not heard."

"Damn, these aristocrats always were poseurs... Well, he might as well not have arranged such a spectacle for me; I am after all the thick-skinned bourgeois, the disgraceful and insensate money-bags– isn't that how they think of us? This man lived a worthless life and died a worthless death. All right, Leroi, take care of the formalities."

The formalities didn't take too much time. Police Inspector Leblanc and Doctor Clavier arrived; the investigation of the scene left them no doubt that Montreux had committed suicide, and the corpse was taken away.

"How many previous servants remained in the estate?" Dubois asked the majordomo.

"Three, monsieur. The gardener, who is too old to look for a new place, the cook, an old woman, hoping that the new owner will pay better than the former, and the groom, who is also the               coachman–this fellow is indifferent to everything."