By Alfred McLellan Burrage

The manager of Marriner’s Museum of Waxworks sat in his office and interviewed Raymond Hewson who was a small, pale man with a tired face and thin brown hair. His clothes, which had been good when new and which were still clean and carefully pressed, were beginning to show signs of their owner’s losing battle with the world. “I don’t work for any definite paper at present, ” Hewson confessed. “However, I would have no difficulty in publishing the story. THE MORNING ECHO would take it immediately. A Night with Marriner’s Murderers. No paper will refuse it.” The manager nodded. “Very well, Mr. Hewson, ” he said. “Get your story published in THE MORNING ECHO, and there will be a five-pound note waiting for you here. But first of all I must warn you that it’s not an easy job that you are going to take. I shouldn’t take it on myself. I’ve seen those figures dressed and undressed. I know all about the process of their manufacture. But I should never sleep there alone among them.” “Why? ” asked Hewson. “I don’t know. I don’t believe in ghosts. It’s just that I can’t sit alone among them all night, with their eyes seeming to stare all me.” Hewson had known it himself from the moment when the idea first occurred to him. But he had a wife and children to keep and for the last months he had not had any regular work and he was living on his small savings. Here was a chance to earn some money. Besides, if he wrote the story well, it might lead to the offer of a regular job. “I have already promised myself an uncomfortable night because your Murderers’ Den is certainly not a hotel bedroom, ” he said. “But I don’t think your waxworks will worry me much. I’m not superstitious.” The manager smiled and rose. “All right, ” he said. “I think the last of the visitors have gone. I’ll let the night people know that you‘ll be here. Then I’ll take you down and show you round.” Then he said: “I must ask you not to smoke there. We had a fire alarm in the Murderers’ Den this evening. I don’t know who gave it but it was a false one. And now, if you are ready, we’ll go.”

The Murderers’ Den was a room of irregular shape, dimly-lit by electric lights burning behind glass lamps. It was, by design, a mysterious and uncomfortable chamber – a chamber whose atmosphere invited visitors to speak in whisper. The waxwork murderers stood in low pedestals with labels at their feet. The manager, walking around with Hewson, pointed out several of the more interesting of these figures “That’s Crippen! I think you recognize him. Insignificant little beast who looks as if he couldn’t kill a fly.” “Who’s that? ” Hewson interrupted in a whisper, pointing. “Oh, ” said the manager. “Come and have a good look at him. This is our star.” The figure which Hewson had indicated was that of a small, thin man not much more than five feet tall. It wore little moustaches, large spectacles and a long coat. He couldn’t say precisely why this kind-looking face seemed to him so disgusting, but he made a step back and even in the manager’s company he was afraid to look at him again.“That, ” said the manager, “is Dr. Bourdette.” The manager smiled. “You’d remember better if you were a Frenchman, ” he said. “For a long time this man was the terror of Paris. He did his work of a doctor in daytime and of a murderer at night. He killed for the devilish pleasure it gave him to kill, and always in the same way – with a razor. After his last crime he mysteriously disappeared, and even since the police of every civilized country have been looking for him.” Hewson shuddered. “Ugh! What eyes he ‘s got! ” “Yes, this figure’s a little masterpiece. It seems to you that the eyes stare at you? Well, that is excellent realism, for Bourdette practiced mesmerism and was supposed to hypnotize his victims before killing them. Indeed, it explains how such a small man could do his terrible work. There were never any signs of a struggle.” “It seemed to me I saw him move, ” said Hewson in a whisper. The manager smiled. “You’ll have more than one optical illusion before the end of the night, I expect. I’m sorry. I can’t give you any more light: we keep this place as gloomy as possible.”

The manager placed an armchair for Hewson and wished him good night. Hewson turned the armchair a little so that its back was toward the figure of Dr. Bourdette. For some reason he liked him much less than his companions. When a deep hush fell over the chamber he realized that he had a difficult night before him. The dim light fell on the rows of figures which were so like human beings that the silence and the stillness seemed unnatural and even sinister. He faced the figures boldly enough. They were only waxworks. So long as he let that thought dominate all others, he promised himself that all would be well. It did not, however, save him long from the discomfort caused by the waxen stare of Dr. Bourdette, which, he knew, was directed upon him from behind. The eyes of the little Frenchman tormented him, and he with difficulty suppressed the desire to turn and look. At last Hewson looked behind him. “He’s only a waxwork like the rest of you, ” he said loudly. They were only waxworks, yes, but waxworks don’t move. It seemed to him that in the moment or two while he had looked behind him, there had been a slight change in the group of the figures in front. He took a notebook from his pocket and wrote quickly: “Remember: Deathly silence. Like being at the bottom of sea. Hypnotic eyes of Dr. Bourdette. Figures seem to move when not being watched.” He had neither seen nor heard a movement, but it was as if some sixth sense had made him aware of one. It was his own nerves. Or was it? If he had only known it, he would have never come here. This was very cowardly and very absurd. They were only waxworks and they couldn’t move; let him hold on to that thought and all would be well. He must go, he told himself. Yes, but that night attendant upstairs will laugh at him. And the manager won’t give him that five-pound note which he needed so badly. His wife will laugh when he tells her what he imagined.

This was too much! The murderers not only moved but they breathed, too. Because somebody was breathing. Or was it his own breath which sounded to him as if it came from a distance? This won’t do! He must hold on to something which belonged to the daylight world. These figures around him were only dummies, made of wax and sawdust who stood there for the entertainment of idle visitors. That was better! But the gaze of Dr. Bourdette burned, challenged and finally forced him to turn. Hewson half turned his chair so as to bring him face to face with the wearer of those dreadful hypnotic eyes. Then he set quite still staring before him, like a man found frozen in the Arctic snows.

Dr. Bourdette’s movements were slow. He stepped off his pedestal with the mincing care of a lady getting out of a bus and sat down on the edge facing Hewson. Then he nodded and smiled and said, “Good evening. I did not suspect that I should have the pleasure of a companion here for the night, ” he continued in perfect English, “You cannot move or speak without my command, but you can hear me perfectly well. Something tells me that you are – shall I say nervous? My dear sir, have no illusions. I am not one of these contemptible dummies! I am Dr. Bourdette himself.” He paused, coughed and shifted his legs. “Let me explain. Circumstances made it desirable that I should live in England. I was close to this building this evening when I saw a policeman watching me too curiously. I guessed that he intended to follow me and perhaps ask me embarrassing questions, so I mixed with the crowd and came in here. An inspiration showed me a way of escape. I shouted “Fire! ” and when all the fools had rushed to the stairs I took the coat which you see on me off my dummy, hid my wax figure under the platform and took its place on the pedestal. “The manager’s description of me, which I had overheard, was biased but not quite wrong. His description of my hobby was in the main true, but not intelligently expressed. You see, the world is divided between collectors and non collectors. The collectors collect anything, according to their individual tastes. I collect throats.” He paused again and regarded Hewson’s throat with interest mixed with disfavour. “I am obliged to chance which brought us together, ” he continued. “But you have a skinny neck, sir. I should have never selected you from choice. I like men with thick necks. Thick red necks…” He took something out of his pocket. “This is a little French razor, ” he remarked. “The blade, you will see, is very narrow. It doesn’t cut very deep, see for yourself.” He rose up and approached Hewson with the furtive step of a hunting panther. “Will you be so kind, ” he said, “as to raise your chin a little? Thank you. A little more, please. Merci, m’sieur.”

After sunrise a few thin rays began to mingle with the dim light from the electric lamps, and this combined illumination added a certain horror to a scene which was terrible enough. The waxwork figures stood apathetically in their places, waiting for the crowds of visitors. In the middle of them, in the centre of the room, Hewson sat still, leaning back in his armchair. His chin was lifted as if he was waiting to be shaved, and although there was not a scratch on his throat nor anywhere on his body, he was cold and dead. His editors were wrong saying that he had no imagination.

Dr. Bourdette on his pedestal watched the dead man unemotionally. He did not move, nor was he capable of motion. After all, he was only a waxwork.