‘There were no mirrors in his house. I know I don’t have to explain the significance of that. . .
‘The Widow Luorni never saw her employer outside the place in daylight; she never saw him outdoors at all except on two occasions, both times at evening, in his own garden.
‘She never once prepared a meal for him and never saw him eat anything. Not ever. He had a kitchen, yes, but to the old lady’s knowledge never used it; or if he did, then he cleared up after himself.
‘He had no wife, no family, no friends. He received very little mail, was often away from home for weeks on end. He did not have a job and did not appear to do any work in the privacy of his home, but he always had money. Plenty of it. When I checked, I was unable to discover anything by way of a bank account in his name. In short, Ferenczy was a very strange, very secretive, very reclusive man …
‘But that’s not all, far from it. And the rest is even stranger. One morning when she went to clean, the old girl found the local police there. Three brothers, a well-known gang of burglars working out of Moreni – a brutish lot that the police had been after for years – had been apprehended at the house. Apparently they’d broken into the place in the wee small hours of the morning. They had thought the house was empty: a bad mistake indeed!
‘According to statements they later made to the police, Ferenczy had been dragging one of them and herding the other two to the cellar when his attention was arrested by the arrival of horsemen outside the house. Remember, in those days the local police still used horses in the more isolated regions. It was them, all right; they had been alerted by reports of prowlers in the area, the brothers, of course. And never were three criminals more glad to be given over into the hands of the law!
Thugs they were, by all means, but they’d been no match for Faethor Ferenczy. Each of them had a broken right arm and a broken left leg, and their intended victim was responsible! Think of his strength Dragosani! The police were too grateful to him to go into the matter too deeply, Widow Luorni said – and after all, he had only been protecting his life and property – but she was there when the brothers were carted away a few hours later, and it was plain to her that her employer had scared the daylights out of them.
‘Anyway, I’ve said that Ferenczy was in the act of taking his captives to the cellar. For what purpose? A place to detain them until help arrived? Possibly
‘Or a place to keep them, like a cool pantry, until they were . . . required, eh?’ said Dragosani.
Giresci nodded. ‘Exactly! Anyway, shortly after that the Widow stopped working there.’
‘Hmm!’ Dragosani mused. ‘It surprises me he let her go. I mean, she must have suspected something. You said yourself that she was “disenchanted”, that a feeling of unease had grown in her until she could take no more. Wouldn’t he worry that she’d talk about him?’
‘Ah!’ Giresci answered. ‘But you’ve forgotten something, Dragosani. What about the way he controlled me -with his eyes and his mind – on the night of the bombing, the night he died?’
‘Hypnotism,’ said the other at once.
Giresci smiled grimly, nodded. ‘It is an art of the vampire, one of many. He simply commanded her that so long as he lived she would remain silent. While he lived, she would simply forget all about him, forget that she had ever seen anything sinister in him.’
‘I see,’ said Dragosani.
‘And so strong was his power,’ the other continued, ‘that she actually did forget – until I questioned her about him all those years later. For, of course, by then Ferenczy was dead.’
Giresci’s manner was beginning to irritate Dragosani. The man’s air of self-satisfaction – his smugness – his obviously high opinion of his own detective skills. ‘But of course this is all conjecture,’ the necromancer finally said. ‘You don’t know any of it for a certainty.’