were.”
“How did he make those fangs pop down?”
“He had them fitted onto a spring mechanism that retracted up close to the roof of his mouth. When the time came he would slip his tongue over the mechanism and press until the spring kicked in, and the teeth would pop down.”
“Way ahead of its time in depicting vampire fangs.”
“Chaney was way ahead of his time in many ways,” Markov said. “The way he immersed himself in his characters, he was essentially a method actor long before anyone had heard of such a thing. I worked with some greats.”
“You did indeed.”
“I can regale you with some of those stories later,” he said. “Now we must move to my studio. In the old days studios were called ‘dream factories.’ Mine is a nightmare factory. The place where I make my monsters.”
“Your luh-BORE-uh-tree?”
Markov didn’t smile. “Indeed.”
CHAPTER 7
The flickering gaslights created a jittery shadow dance as the two men headed down the long corridor. Holding a candle lantern in front of them for added illumination in the gloomy passage, Markov led the way.
They hadn’t gone far when they came to an elaborately carved wooden door on the left. “The entrance to your bedchamber,” Markov said without slowing. A short distance beyond the door, they reached a corner where the corridor they were on intersected with another that ran to the right. Quinn stopped when he saw what was standing on a pedestal in the corner.
Shrouded in a black cowl, a grinning skeleton holding a scythe in one hand and brandishing a crucifix in the other stared from eyeless sockets.
Markov held the light closer to the figure. “One of my most prized pieces from my collection of movie memorabilia.” The strobe effect of the candlelight animated the lifeless skull.
Quinn searched the film archives in his brain for which movie this would have come from. “Is this from the opening cemetery sequence in Frankenstein ?”
“The very same.”
“But Browning didn’t direct that. James Whale did. I would think each set would have been closely guarded.”
“They were. I didn’t take it from the set. I got it years later at an auction. I paid a king’s ransom for it, but I had to have it.”
Still holding the light in front of the skull, he said, “All of my set decorations are placed with a particular thought in mind. I added the scythe, meaning to suggest the Grim Reaper. The idea behind placing him at this intersection is that he is poised at the threshold between the living and the dead, waiting for new souls to harvest.”
“Not a comforting thought for your guests, to have him right outside their door.”
“True. Consider that a small test of your love of horror.”
They rounded the corner and headed down another long, windowless corridor. Quinn began counting his paces, wanting to create a mental map of the layout. He had counted thirty when they came to another finely crafted wooden door on the right.
“Johnny’s quarters,” Markov said without slowing.
Thirty-one paces later they came to a similar door and stopped.
Markov pulled out a skeleton key. “Not exactly the most sophisticated locking system, but I didn’t want to keep track of countless keys. This way I need only one. There was also the matter of not violating the set design. The movie of my life is a period piece.”
“I thought I saw a modern lock on the door to Johnny’s quarters.”
“Everyone needs their privacy. The need is especially acute for two people in such an … unusual relationship, so cut off from the world. Johnny’s apartment is the only exception to my one-lock rule.”
“A good policy,” Quinn said. “By the way, I must compliment you on your Art Direction and Set Decoration. Cedric Gibbons would approve.”
“Oh, come now. I have a high opinion of my talents, but Gibbons is the god of art directors. He won eleven Oscars. You flatter me.”
“No, I don’t. You’ve done an excellent job of
“How did he make those fangs pop down?”
“He had them fitted onto a spring mechanism that retracted up close to the roof of his mouth. When the time came he would slip his tongue over the mechanism and press until the spring kicked in, and the teeth would pop down.”
“Way ahead of its time in depicting vampire fangs.”
“Chaney was way ahead of his time in many ways,” Markov said. “The way he immersed himself in his characters, he was essentially a method actor long before anyone had heard of such a thing. I worked with some greats.”
“You did indeed.”
“I can regale you with some of those stories later,” he said. “Now we must move to my studio. In the old days studios were called ‘dream factories.’ Mine is a nightmare factory. The place where I make my monsters.”
“Your luh-BORE-uh-tree?”
Markov didn’t smile. “Indeed.”
CHAPTER 7
The flickering gaslights created a jittery shadow dance as the two men headed down the long corridor. Holding a candle lantern in front of them for added illumination in the gloomy passage, Markov led the way.
They hadn’t gone far when they came to an elaborately carved wooden door on the left. “The entrance to your bedchamber,” Markov said without slowing. A short distance beyond the door, they reached a corner where the corridor they were on intersected with another that ran to the right. Quinn stopped when he saw what was standing on a pedestal in the corner.
Shrouded in a black cowl, a grinning skeleton holding a scythe in one hand and brandishing a crucifix in the other stared from eyeless sockets.
Markov held the light closer to the figure. “One of my most prized pieces from my collection of movie memorabilia.” The strobe effect of the candlelight animated the lifeless skull.
Quinn searched the film archives in his brain for which movie this would have come from. “Is this from the opening cemetery sequence in Frankenstein ?”
“The very same.”
“But Browning didn’t direct that. James Whale did. I would think each set would have been closely guarded.”
“They were. I didn’t take it from the set. I got it years later at an auction. I paid a king’s ransom for it, but I had to have it.”
Still holding the light in front of the skull, he said, “All of my set decorations are placed with a particular thought in mind. I added the scythe, meaning to suggest the Grim Reaper. The idea behind placing him at this intersection is that he is poised at the threshold between the living and the dead, waiting for new souls to harvest.”
“Not a comforting thought for your guests, to have him right outside their door.”
“True. Consider that a small test of your love of horror.”
They rounded the corner and headed down another long, windowless corridor. Quinn began counting his paces, wanting to create a mental map of the layout. He had counted thirty when they came to another finely crafted wooden door on the right.
“Johnny’s quarters,” Markov said without slowing.
Thirty-one paces later they came to a similar door and stopped.
Markov pulled out a skeleton key. “Not exactly the most sophisticated locking system, but I didn’t want to keep track of countless keys. This way I need only one. There was also the matter of not violating the set design. The movie of my life is a period piece.”
“I thought I saw a modern lock on the door to Johnny’s quarters.”
“Everyone needs their privacy. The need is especially acute for two people in such an … unusual relationship, so cut off from the world. Johnny’s apartment is the only exception to my one-lock rule.”
“A good policy,” Quinn said. “By the way, I must compliment you on your Art Direction and Set Decoration. Cedric Gibbons would approve.”
“Oh, come now. I have a high opinion of my talents, but Gibbons is the god of art directors. He won eleven Oscars. You flatter me.”
“No, I don’t. You’ve done an excellent job of
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