I have often wondered, since all this occurred, how it happened that
McGinity and I arrived at the castle at this very critical moment,
which, afterwards, proved to be the crucial stage of our adventures
in trying to detect and trace the utterly unscrupulous scoundrel who
perpetrated the Martian hoax. Seconds--or minutes--later, and I might
now be recording a much more terrible series of events. It was all
horrible enough, God knows!
To our great relief, we found that Jane had fainted from shock. She
showed signs of returning to consciousness as the reporter and I sprang
to her side. She was, of course, the first person to give us the news.
After we had assisted her to her feet, we partly carried her to a big
easy chair, propping her up with sofa pillows. Luckily, her smelling
salts were in her handbag, which I had picked up from the floor, and as
I waved the vial of sal volatile to and fro under her nose, I urged her
gently to tell us what had happened.
"Where's Henry?" was my first question.
"He went away--er--after lunch," Jane replied, slowly and painfully.
She was still breathing with difficulty, and her words came in little
gasps.
"Did he say where he was going?"
"No place--in particular. He was completely fagged out. I think he went
for a drive."
"And Pat? Where is she?"
"She went out about an hour ago. I begged her not to go. She's been
crying all day--about her white cockatoo."
"Did she say where she was going, Miss Royce?" McGinity asked.
"She said something about the dock. What she did say was that she felt
that some fresh air, and a little exercise, would do her good."
"Did she mention any particular kind of exercise?" McGinity questioned
again.
"No--she merely said--oh, yes--she spoke of rowing--that was it."
"Pat's very fond of rowing," I explained to McGinity, "and frequently
goes over to the island, and potters about the old lighthouse ruins."
Then I turned again to Jane: "Now, Jane, tell us--what about Mr. Zzyx?"
At the mention of the creature's name, she turned more pale and sank
back in the chair, gasping. I thought she was going to faint again.
Between us, McGinity and I rubbed her hands and forearms briskly.
Quickly rallying, she murmured, with quivering lips: "He went mad--or
something--stark crazy!"
I glanced at McGinity, and whispered: "He must have gone on a
rampage--just as I feared."
"Where are all the servants, Miss Royce?" McGinity asked, as Jane
recovered some semblance of her natural poise.
She smiled a little grimly. "I guess they've all been frightened away,"
she answered. "You see, I don't know about everything that happened,
but it's my belief that all the servants have locked themselves up in
the service wing. Oh, neither of you can comprehend the utter reign of
terror we've just passed through. Here I was, by myself--Henry and Pat
both out--the servants fleeing in alarm. Naturally, at first, I was in
a state of absolute despair as to what to do."
"Let's begin at the beginning, Jane," I counselled, softly. "When did
you first hear of Mr. Zzyx acting up?"
"About half an hour ago," she replied. "I was in my room, reading,
when Schweizer knocked at my door. His face was as white as a sheet.
He said a great commotion was going on in the State Apartment, and
hadn't he better call the police. But I advised him to summon all the
men-servants in the place, as I felt they could handle the situation,
whatever it might be."
"Then what?"
"The butler had not been gone two minutes when I heard that dreadful
thing, screeching--oh, terrible to hear!--and running up and down the
hall, outside my room, and smashing the furniture. Then everything
became quiet. He must have gone downstairs, for, a few minutes later,
I heard the woman servants screaming--such screaming as I never heard
before and never want to hear again."
"What did you do, then?"
"As soon as the screaming had subsided, I decided that something must
be done, for I suddenly realized that all the men on the place had gone
off on a half holiday. Besides, the telephone extension on the second
floor went out of order this morning. My intention, as I slipped out of
my room, was to go downstairs to the library, lock myself in, and phone
the police. As none of the servants, not even my personal maid, had
shown themselves, and viewing the awful wreckage that creature had made
of the tables, chairs and tapestries in the hall, I was convinced that
something terrible was going on."
"But how did you happen to be lying at the foot of the staircase?"
"I will tell you." She drew a long, painful breath, and then continued.
"All went well until I reached the bottom of the stairs, when I heard
heavy footsteps above me. I turned and looked. Mr. Zzyx was coming
down towards me, chattering, and showing his teeth, rolling his head,
and waving his arms convulsively, like he had a fit. I was frozen with
terror to the spot. I couldn't move. I remember seeing blood on his
hands and clothes, as he came nearer to me. I recall receiving a heavy
blow on my arm. After that, I remember nothing."
"Thank God! you escaped without a scratch," I breathed. "But where do
you suppose he's gone? The front door was open when we arrived. He may
have gone out that way."
"I have no idea," Jane said. Then she wailed: "Oh, what are we to do?"
"We'll do something," I replied, and immediately went into action.
I had a police whistle in my pocket, and, leaving Jane in charge of
McGinity, I went quickly into the library. Opening the window that
gave on to the terrace, I blew the whistle. Just then, I saw Schweizer
coming from the servants' wing. I waved a hand to him, and he came
hurrying on to the terrace and up to the window.
"What's become of everyone?" I inquired.
"The women have barricaded themselves in their quarters, sir," the
butler replied. "That hairy fellow nearly scared the life out of 'em.
Mamie Sparks went into a faint, and isn't out of it yet."
"Isn't there a strong-armed man left on the place?"
"None, sir," Schweizer replied. "The two chauffeurs went with your
brother on a drive. I was afraid to tackle that hairy thing unarmed and
single-handed, and ever since leaving Miss Jane locked up in her room,
I've been searching everywhere for a gun."
"Did you see Mr. Zzyx leaving by the front door?"
"I saw nothing, sir, after I went back to the servants' wing to look
for a weapon. If I'd found one, I meant to shoot that fellow dead. He
surely made a mess of things with his tearing and smashing."
"Yes, I know," I rejoined, glancing back over my shoulder. The dining
room looked as though a small whirlwind had struck it. "Better come
inside, Schweizer, and help us get things straightened out."
"Just a word, sir," the butler said, coming up closer to the window,
and speaking in little more than a whisper. "I think murder's been
committed."
"Oh, I don't believe that," I replied, "but we'll soon see."
While alarmed and mystified at first over the red blotches on the
marble staircase, it was my belief now that Mr. Zzyx must have cut
himself severely during his rampage, which would account for the blood
stains. But after the butler had joined us, and had told of hearing
Niki screaming, during the commotion in the State Apartment, that put
a different complexion on the matter. Leaving Schweizer to guard Jane,
McGinity and I hastened upstairs.
It was my earnest hope that Niki was in hiding somewhere. I could not
picture a person of his athletic prowess being outmatched, even by a
strong-limbed creature like Mr. Zzyx. First, I tried Mr. Zzyx's door.
It was locked on the inside. Then I knocked on the door which opened
into the room occupied by Niki, a double room, one half of which was
fitted as a bedroom. There was no response. Dead silence followed each
knock--an eerie silence that caused my blood to run chill.
In a moment I had opened the door, and we were standing in his room.
There were unmistakable traces of some sort of struggle. Several chairs
and a reading-table were overturned, rugs disarranged, and books and
magazines scattered over the floor. But no sign of Niki. I called him
by name. "Niki! Niki!" my voice echoing weirdly from the high ceiling.
Then, at McGinity's suggestion, I opened the door connecting Niki's
apartment with Mr. Zzyx's luxurious sleeping quarters. I gave one
glance into the room, then recoiled with an exclamation of horror. The
reporter leapt forward to look. The sight that met our gaze stayed with
me for many days afterwards.
Niki was lying on the bed, on his back, his clothes almost torn to
tatters, and the upper part of his body and head hidden under pillows
and bedclothes, which bore crimson stains. I made no comment at the
moment. My thoughts were going back to the performance of Verdi's
"Otello" at the Metropolitan-Civic Opera House; the night I had studied
Mr. Zzyx attentively as he watched, as if spellbound, the smothering to
death of Desdemona by the jealous and enraged Moor. Had my surmises at
that time been right? Had this violent climax of the opera taken hold
of his primitive mind and obsessed him until it had quickened him to
this deed of incredible violence?
Beyond any reasonable doubt, Niki had been overcome and smothered to
death after a terrific fight with this hairy monster. The wreckage of
the furnishings of the room bore evidence of such a struggle.
McGinity spoke first. "Awful!" he said in a faint voice.
"Poor Niki!" I said, in a tone which I scarcely recognized as my own.
"If that fiend smothered Niki to death, how do you account for all
that--" McGinity checked himself as his voice choked.
"As Niki's face bears only scratches," I replied, "it's possible
that Mr. Zzyx cut himself seriously while smashing window-panes and
picture-glass. That will account for the bloodstains on the pillows and
bedclothing."
"Then he must have killed Niki after going on a rampage through the
castle," McGinity suggested.
"No, I don't think so," I replied. "I figure that he killed Niki first.
He must have returned to the second floor by the back stairs, and by
some strange instinct, re-enacted the killing with his cut and bleeding
hands, to make sure his victim was dead."
"A cruel, murderous affair any way you look at it," said McGinity.
"Better call the police at once."
"No," I demurred. "I mean to keep things quiet until Henry returns."
"In that case, then," the reporter suggested, "we'd better split up.
You go and find Pat, and I'll start looking for Mr. Zzyx. It's my
belief that he's escaped into the thick woods, back of the castle."
"Be careful, young man," I advised, in assenting to his proposed plan
of action. "That fellow is mad--desperate, and likely to show fight."
"He'll not escape me, don't you worry," the reporter rejoined, his
hand moving instinctively to his hip pocket. "I'll take no chances in
tackling that bird. So now," he concluded, "whatever it is we're in
for--"
He had no time to finish that sentence. The butler's voice broke in,
coming from the hall. "Come, quickly, Mr. Royce! Come, at once, sir!"
the butler shouted.
We left the chamber of death, taking good care to lock the door, and
hurried down the hall to join Schweizer, who had only come to the
head of the stairs, so as not to let Jane out of his sight. He had
surprising news to tell. The gate-keeper, who had deserted his post at
the first alarm, had come running up from his hiding-place, behind the
terrace wall, at the brink of the cliff, to report that he had seen
Mr. Zzyx go down to the dock, and, a few minutes later, cast off in a
runabout, heading for the island.
The effect of this news was terrifying. The same thought must have
struck McGinity and myself at the same instant. Pat was on the island.
To be caught there--alone--by--It was too terrible to contemplate.
If the effect of the news was terrifying to us both, it was also
electrical, so far as McGinity was concerned. Without uttering a word,
he dashed out of the castle, ran across the terrace, and disappeared
down the steps to the dock.
Apprehensive of the effect of this news, as well as the killing of
Niki, on Jane, who was now comfortably ensconced on a divan in the
hall, with her personal maid in attendance, I gave Schweizer a quick,
whispered account of what we had found, and enjoined him to secrecy.
"Then there was murder, sir?" he said, in a low voice. "Niki murdered!
Murder, says you, murder!" His mind couldn't seem to grasp it. "Lord
help us!" he added. "I hope that reporter person gets that hairy,
murdering thing, and gets it good!"
Increasingly disturbed and anxious about Pat's fate, I left the butler,
signaling to him as I went outside, to stay back and look after Jane.
Emerging on the terrace, another surprising sight met my gaze, giving a
startling and dramatic turn to the tragic proceedings of the afternoon.
The shanty, which stood on the island, near the lighthouse ruins, was
on fire. The bitterly cold, north-east wind was already whipping the
flames and sending them upward in long, red tongues, which seemed to
lick the lowering November sky. Cold and biting as the wind was, I was
not sure that the quiver which shook me from head to foot was more from
cold than from the dread anticipation of what was at hand.
Shaking and shivering, I somehow managed to get to the dock. McGinity
had already cast off, and, as I breathed a prayer for the safety of
Pat, I watched him struggling against the wind and incoming tide
in a big, unwieldy dory, the only boat available at the dock. A
flat-bottomed boat with high flaring sides, largely used on the New
England coast, and by American fishing vessels, and christened "The
Tub" by our servants, who used it for fishing excursions.
Mr. Zzyx must have reached the island with incredible speed. The
runabout was tied up at the tiny dock, on the far side of which Pat's
row-boat rocked with the tide. The flames from the burning shanty
were mounting still higher, their reflection turning the expanse of
surrounding water into turbulent pools of fiery red. Still, no movement
was noticed on the island that would indicate the presence there,
either of Pat, or of the maddened creature, Mr. Zzyx. I was beginning
to be more alarmed than ever, when suddenly things began to take shape.
First, I saw McGinity beach his boat at the far end of the island,
where there was a small, pebbly beach. Then came a flutter of
something white--Pat's scarf, or handkerchief--at the pinnacle of the
ruins.
At that moment the flames died down, and myriads of sparks flew upward
as the walls of the shanty collapsed. Visibility became obscure on
account of the smoke. Presently I saw McGinity running up the steps,
cut in the rocks, to the door of the lighthouse, the lower part of
which was practically intact. I saw him enter the doorway. Then
everything became indistinct in a cloud of smoke, and out of that
obscurity, I saw a black figure come stealthily around the ruins,
moving from the ledge of rock on the side next to the Sound, as though
it had been in hiding. As it crept into the doorway, and disappeared
into the dark interior of the ruins, I cried, "Oh, God!" It was Mr.
Zzyx. Pat and McGinity were trapped in the lighthouse.
Standing there alone on the dock, in the biting cold and gathering
gloom, and helpless to assist Pat and McGinity in their perilous
position, I passed into a state of anxiety bordering on frenzy. It
was only my abounding faith in the courage and resourcefulness of the
reporter in meeting the situation that kept me sane. Also, I felt
sure then, as I do still, that Mr. Zzyx did not go to the island in
pursuit of Pat. By no possible means could he have known that she was
there. Mad with fury, and out to wreck and kill, he was winding up his
abnormal excitation with all the mischief he could do on the island.
It is natural to assume that when he rushed out of the castle and
reached the dock, he saw in the runabout a means to further satisfy
his madness for excitement; or the boat may have suggested a means of
escape. As I learned afterwards, he had gone with Niki for a spin in
the runabout, directly after lunch. The engine may still have been
warm, for he seemed to have had no difficulty in starting it himself,
and he had long ago become proficient in casting off and tying up. The
fact remains that he got to the island.
Of course, from the dock, I could not see what was transpiring inside
the lighthouse. But I know now what happened. As Pat told her story
afterwards, she had spent about an hour on the island when she decided
to row back to the mainland. The exercise of rowing, the cold, bracing
wind, and quiet moments spent in wandering about the ruins, had
refreshed her wonderfully. She was walking down the rocky slope to the
island dock, when she saw the runabout approaching. Naturally, she
suspected nothing out of the way.
"At first, I thought," she said, after it was all over, "that it
must be either one of our servants, or--improbable as it seemed--Mr.
McGinity. The runabout was halfway across before I recognized Mr. Zzyx.
"My first horrified thought was that he was coming after me," she went
on, her voice still strained by excitement. "And to me that meant only
one thing: that he was going to make an attempt on my life, using the
same tactics as he had employed when he so cruelly killed my white
cockatoo. He'd always seemed mild to me, and while I was afraid of him,
I never considered him really dangerous. I had developed a sort of
fondness for him, as I would for a big dog. But after killing my poor
bird--well, that settled everything. I had decided not to spend another
night in the castle while he was in it, and I was prepared to give
Uncle Henry my ultimatum, and stay with friends in town, if he didn't
rid the premises at once of that--killer.
"I was scared into a fit, too scared for a minute or so to think of
anything to do. Then I thought of setting fire to the shanty. That's
a thought that might occur to anybody in the same fix. I counted on
the fire bringing someone, quickly, from the castle to the island, for
I had told Aunt Jane I was going for a row, and I believed the fire
would indicate that I was at the lighthouse, and in danger. I had been
inside the shanty, and had noticed a barrel filled with waste paper and
pasteboard boxes--probably gathered up from one of the picnic parties
trespassing on the island during the summer. So I ran back, into the
shack, and threw a burning match into the barrel. The flames leapt up
so quickly, it was a close call getting outside without getting singed.
"I was pretty shaky by this time, so I decided to hide in the ruins.
Mr. Zzyx was tying up at the dock. I could hear him chattering; he was
acting very queerly. I got down, and crawled on my hands and knees,
behind the rocks, until I reached the lighthouse doorway. I don't
believe he saw me.
"When I got inside the ruins it was so dark I had to light a match to
find my way. As I did so, something rushed at me from above, and struck
me on the head. It was a big bat. I screamed, and ran up the winding,
stone stairway as far as I could go. I crawled behind one of the larger
stones that had fallen inside, on the third landing, and stayed there
until I got my breath. The clouds were hanging so low over my head, I
felt I could almost reach up and touch them. This feeling suggested
something, so I climbed up on one of the dislodged stones, leaned over
the broken ledge of the circular wall, and waved the white silk scarf
I had been wearing under my wool jacket. Then I went back into hiding
again. It wasn't any fun, hiding there, in all that uncertainty, and
expecting every moment to see Mr. Zzyx coming up the steps.
"Then I heard a voice. Some one was calling me by name. Again, I
climbed up on the stone, and peered over the ledge. I had only a second
or two to see that it was Mr. McGinity calling, and to wave to him.
It was long enough, however, and I never felt so relieved in my life
before, as I thought my last hour had come."
Pat must have looked pretty ghastly when McGinity finally reached her
side, according to what he told me afterwards. He had no idea, then,
what had become of Mr. Zzyx, and was surprised not to encounter him
inside the ruins.
I don't think either of them told me exactly what passed between them,
when McGinity came to Pat's rescue. Perhaps it was too sacred to
both of them to repeat, even for a devoted uncle's ears. Anyway, the
reporter took her gently by the arm, and assisted her down the winding
stairs. They had just reached the second landing when they heard Mr.
Zzyx's labored breathing, as he came creeping up the steps below them.
Time was vital. McGinity's first thought was of Pat's safety. On this
landing there was a closet in the wall, in which oil for the beacon
lamp had been stored years ago. The heavy, studded oak door had defied
the ravages of time. The hinges, though, were almost eaten away by
rust. It required all the strength he possessed to open the door,
and then to close it, once he had placed Pat inside. She was too
frightened, it seems, to raise any protest against being shut up in the
dark.
McGinity had just time to draw his revolver when Mr. Zzyx appeared at
the top of the steps, and came at him, growling fiercely. He fired
a shot to frighten off the creature, but it had not the slightest
effect. Before he could get out of the way, Mr. Zzyx lunged at him in
wild fury, caught him in his hairy arms, and held him with a grip like
a vise. Luckily, his right arm was free, and he dealt the creature a
heavy blow on the head with the butt of his revolver. This not only
broke the clinch; it frightened off the maddened beast.
With a bound, Mr. Zzyx dashed up the steps to the peak of the ruins.
McGinity quickly followed, firing three shots in the air in rapid
succession. His idea all through had been to frighten and cow, and not
to kill, and what occurred after they both reached the open landing
certainly was not the act of wanton destruction on the reporter's part.
Mr. Zzyx wheeled, and rushed at the reporter. Again McGinity fired, a
reckless shot. This time he stayed the onrush, and Mr. Zzyx turned in
his tracks, leapt up on the dislodged stones, and gained the top ledge.
A wave of horror came over McGinity as he watched him waver a moment,
to and fro, then, with a scream that sounded almost human, plunge
to his death on the rocks below. If he was not instantly killed by
the fall, he was drowned, for his body rolled off the rocks and was
engulfed in the sea.