THE VENETIAN MIRROR

 

 

In the luxuriously furnished room there was absolute calm.

In addition to the lit chandelier and the chandeliers stuck to the wall and carrying numerous bulbs, the lamps glowed a soft red under their shades.

Sitting near the fire burning in the hearth, Wla Jordonoff smoked cigarette after cigarette. The large silver ashtray was filled with cigarette butts, and an aromatic cloud of tobacco smoke slowly floated under the cream-colored roof.

The phone rang, but Jordonoff remained motionless. Only his jade eyes turned, full of uneasiness, towards the noisy apparatus.

After a few stubborn signals—Jordonoff mechanically counted eleven—the doorbell fell silent, and the man began to breathe more deeply, as if the restored silence were lightening his heart.

From the windows hung thick velvet curtains that did not let the slightest ray of the abundant light outside filter, and which, no doubt, drowned out the murmur of the street at the same time.

Supposing, of course, that some noise might rise from that deserted alley, for Jordonoff lived in a very remote part of Stoke-Newington, in which only a few newly built houses stood, and which for the most part were still waiting for hypothetical tenants.

His own abode was new, too. Only the rooms in which he lived were furnished; the rest of the property was completely devoid of any furniture.

The small copper plate affixed to the door bore a very common name: Ph. Jones. And no one, in Stoke-Newington or in London, could guess that under this vulgar patronymic was concealed the famous Wla Jordonoff.

Jorry – as his friends called him – had been a real celebrity in the biggest cities of the United States. At the head of a major gang of gangsters, he had established a veritable regime of terror there.

Robbery, armed robbery, blackmail, kidnapping, voluntary arson, murder... There was not a crime that he had not tasted.

He deserved the electric chair a hundred times over. Yet the avenging arm of justice had never been stretched out to him, so much so was his power feared. Jorry was, above all, very well protected.

Then he had abruptly disappeared from that equivocal world. They had not found him again anywhere in America. They believed him dead, the victim of some settling of scores.

In reality, he had expatriated to Europe and was now living as a peaceful bourgeois in a remote corner of the English capital.

He could be calm. None of his former friends or accomplices would have been able to identify him. Thanks to a painful but perfectly successful surgery, the features of his face had been completely transformed.

However, he had not found the peace he had hoped for; he felt a mysterious and alarming threat weighing over him.

Where could the danger come from?

He did not know it, but nevertheless he perceived it clearly and that was enough for him.

He had the telephone installed, but since no one knew him in the country, they never called him. But that afternoon it had sounded three times in a row.

"I've been located," he growled, when for the third time the doorbell fell silent.

The anguish he experienced caused all kinds of disturbing and phantasmagorical images to arise around him: huge hands wielding daggers or revolvers, electric chairs, gigantic scaffolds and sinister guillotines.

Wasn't it footsteps that echoed in the deserted house? Didn't the stairs creak? And what invisible hand was manipulating, at that moment, in the lock of the front door?

No, it was just the insidious wind brushing the walls outside. The staircase groaned because it was new and still wet. As for the door, he could not help complaining under the brutal slaps of the air current that made the newly built house shudder.

He went back to smoking cigarette after cigarette, emptying the bottle of whiskey.

Suddenly, a light shadow crossed the room. Jordonoff trembled.

But there was no reason. It was simply a light bulb that, when burned, had caused a small dark spot to grow on the wall.

"Nonsense! he murmured. No more, no less!

Anyway, he couldn't help but slide his hand under the silk cushion of his armchair to check if the loaded pistol was still there.

"Why have I retired to this accursed place?" he asked himself bitterly. Loneliness is useless. It would be better for me to get lost in the crowd. In cinemas, theaters, dances and nightclubs there is no danger of encountering ghosts. While here... He must leave this disastrous refuge.

For the fourth time, the phone started calling. The doorbell rang stubbornly. Now, nothing seemed to be able to stop him.

As if pushed by a mysterious force, Jordonoff put his hand on the apparatus, picked up and stretched out his ear.

The line was undoubtedly broken, as he heard only a series of frantic creaks. Finally he heard an unfamiliar voice.

Although at the other end of the thread someone spoke with great volubility, he could only catch two or three words that were frequently repeated:

-The mirror...

Then the communication was abruptly interrupted.

"The mirror?" What about the mirror? Jordanoff growled.

There was only one mirror in the house, a magnificent piece that he had bought at the time of settling in this new house.

It was solidly fixed to a splendid frame, and the glass, slightly greenish, must have been of Venetian origin.

Jordanoff turned his eyes to his acquisition.

It was a superb mirror, of course, in which the light was reflected perfectly, without a single shadow coming to stain it.

But why was he suddenly attracted to him?

Trembling with an anxiety that could not have been explained, he left his seat and approached the mirror, which immediately returned his image to him.

He leaned over in horror: in the glaucous depths of the glass a shadowy, menacing figure had just appeared.

Eyes of fire shone in their sockets and rictus of ferocity disfigured their features.

Jordonoff screamed and wanted to jump back, but his limbs refused to obey his will. He stood there, petrified, staring at himself in the mirror, where his image grew more and more frightening.

The eyes dimmed, the nose was erased. There was nothing left but an open mouth, with white and pointed teeth. An indescribable horror seized Jordonoff, who recognized the face of Death.

"Help!" he shouted.

The abominable head made a savage gesture that soon turned into a Homeric laugh, although inaudible.

"No, I don't want to!" Jordonoff howled. I don't want to! Justice has never managed to catch me, and neither will you! No!

In desperation, he rushed into the mirror with clenched fists.

The mirror flew into a thousand pieces. Stunned, with his arms raised, Jordonoff stared in disbelief at the work of art he had just destroyed.

He smiled stupidly, as he stared at the blood gushing out of the open veins of his torn wrists.

A few moments later he collapsed on the carpet, dead...

"It was a rare piece," lamented the antiquarian Boles, "what was once called a magic mirror, one of those curious objects of purely Venetian origin, a marvellous glass which, when intensely illuminated, deforms the face in a strange way. I have called him three times on the phone to tell him that it was not an ordinary mirror, since it was my employee who sold it to him and gave it to him.

But I haven't received a response to my calls. The fourth time he picked up the receiver, but apparently the line was broken, because it was almost impossible to understand each other.

 

END