The Helm of Hades by Paul Halter

Author:Paul Halter [Halter, Paul]
Language: eng
Format: epub
Publisher: Locked Room International
Published: 2019-10-26T07:00:00+00:00

‘The next day, in the late afternoon, the innkeeper drove me there in his cabriolet. After a bone-shaking quarter of an hour on a partly obliterated track—it had snowed heavily all morning—I spotted the reddish shape of the lodge on my left. My friend had not exaggerated about the isolation: there was not a living soul in sight. His country retreat stood in the heart of the countryside, on the edge of a forest of firs—dark sentinels standing out against the immaculate white of the snow. The residence was surrounded by an impressive yew hedge broken by a dome-shaped gap leading to the front entrance. The lodge itself was of half-timbered brick construction, its windows heavily embellished with ornamental carvings, in a baroque style totally in keeping with its owner’s image. It faced a vast clearing, in the middle of which—at some hundred yards from the house—stood a cabin, which the heavy silence of the surrounding snow made appear even more isolated than it actually was. A few white flakes twirled in the glacial air, contrasting with the grey of the sky. After tipping the innkeeper handsomely I picked up my bags, entered the yew dome, walked under a pergola colonised by a bare wisteria, and finally pressed the doorbell. Its sinister tone should have alerted me to the forthcoming danger but, at the time, I was more preoccupied with thoughts of meeting my host’s ravishing guests than paying attention to omens.

‘He had not exaggerated. I was soon comfortably ensconced in a rustic-style armchair, with a glass of Suze in hand, admiring the three members of the weaker sex amongst the guests my host had just introduced. The least striking, if I may so describe her—for she was by no means unattractive—was a diminutive woman with flaming red hair and the inquisitive eyes of a squirrel, who answered to the name of Hélène. She was the mother of two—who would have thought so, with such a slender waist?—and married to Philippe Houdeville, a tall, well-built, carefully groomed man in the prime of life; a stuffy accountant who seemed a little out of place in the group, but who Marcellus assured me would let his hair down after a couple of cognacs.

‘Philippe was conversing with Louis Prince, a legendary ex-jockey, the number one in France for many years, who had often ridden Marcellus’s horses to success. That profitable partnership had cemented a firm friendship between the two. I have to say he was not physically blessed, with the body of a young boy surmounted by a large head with drooping bushy eyebrows and a permanent look of disdain. What a contrast with his wife Frida, a dazzling blonde with a breathtaking figure, bursting with sensuality; a light-hearted creature who adored animals, particularly her three beagles—her “three darlings whom I miss so much”—which she nurtured like the children she’d never had. What would I not have given to change places with one of those lucky creatures! She must have been about thirty,

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