The killing of the friendless old Russian, Michael Sabrov, by his great
trained ape, was a matter for newspaper comment for a few days. Lord
Greystoke read of it, and while taking special precautions not to
permit his name to become connected with the affair, kept himself well
posted as to the police search for the anthropoid.
As was true of the general public, his chief interest in the matter
centered about the mysterious disappearance of the slayer. Or at least
this was true until he learned, several days subsequent to the tragedy,
that his son Jack had not reported at the public school en route for
which they had seen him safely ensconced in a railway carriage. Even
then the father did not connect the disappearance of his son with the
mystery surrounding the whereabouts of the ape. Nor was it until a
month later that careful investigation revealed the fact that the boy
had left the train before it pulled out of the station at London, and
the cab driver had been found who had driven him to the address of the
old Russian, that Tarzan of the Apes realized that Akut had in some way
been connected with the disappearance of the boy.
Beyond the moment that the cab driver had deposited his fare beside the
curb in front of the house in which the Russian had been quartered
there was no clue. No one had seen either the boy or the ape from that
instant—at least no one who still lived. The proprietor of the house
identified the picture of the lad as that of one who had been a
frequent visitor in the room of the old man. Aside from this he knew
nothing. And there, at the door of a grimy, old building in the slums
of London, the searchers came to a blank wall—baffled.
The day following the death of Alexis Paulvitch a youth accompanying
his invalid grandmother, boarded a steamer at Dover. The old lady was
heavily veiled, and so weakened by age and sickness that she had to be
wheeled aboard the vessel in an invalid chair.
The boy would permit none but himself to wheel her, and with his own
hands assisted her from the chair to the interior of their
stateroom—and that was the last that was seen of the old lady by the
ship’s company until the pair disembarked. The boy even insisted upon
doing the work of their cabin steward, since, as he explained, his
grandmother was suffering from a nervous disposition that made the
presence of strangers extremely distasteful to her.
Outside the cabin—and none there was aboard who knew what he did in the
cabin—the lad was just as any other healthy, normal English boy might
have been. He mingled with his fellow passengers, became a prime
favorite with the officers, and struck up numerous friendships among
the common sailors. He was generous and unaffected, yet carried an air
of dignity and strength of character that inspired his many new friends
with admiration as well as affection for him.
Among the passengers there was an American named Condon, a noted
blackleg and crook who was “wanted” in a half dozen of the larger
cities of the United States. He had paid little attention to the boy
until on one occasion he had seen him accidentally display a roll of
bank notes. From then on Condon cultivated the youthful Briton. He
learned, easily, that the boy was traveling alone with his invalid
grandmother, and that their destination was a small port on the west
coast of Africa, a little below the equator; that their name was
Billings, and that they had no friends in the little settlement for
which they were bound. Upon the point of their purpose in visiting the
place Condon found the boy reticent, and so he did not push the
matter—he had learned all that he cared to know as it was.
Several times Condon attempted to draw the lad into a card game; but
his victim was not interested, and the black looks of several of the
other men passengers decided the American to find other means of
transferring the boy’s bank roll to his own pocket.
At last came the day that the steamer dropped anchor in the lee of a
wooded promontory where a score or more of sheet-iron shacks making an
unsightly blot upon the fair face of nature proclaimed the fact that
civilization had set its heel. Straggling upon the outskirts were the
thatched huts of natives, picturesque in their primeval savagery,
harmonizing with the background of tropical jungle and accentuating the
squalid hideousness of the white man’s pioneer architecture.
The boy, leaning over the rail, was looking far beyond the man-made
town deep into the God-made jungle. A little shiver of anticipation
tingled his spine, and then, quite without volition, he found himself
gazing into the loving eyes of his mother and the strong face of the
father which mirrored, beneath its masculine strength, a love no less
than the mother’s eyes proclaimed. He felt himself weakening in his
resolve. Nearby one of the ship’s officers was shouting orders to a
flotilla of native boats that was approaching to lighter the
consignment of the steamer’s cargo destined for this tiny post.
“When does the next steamer for England touch here?” the boy asked.
“The Emanuel ought to be along most any time now,” replied the officer.
“I figgered we’d find her here,” and he went on with his bellowing
remarks to the dusty horde drawing close to the steamer’s side.
The task of lowering the boy’s grandmother over the side to a waiting
canoe was rather difficult. The lad insisted on being always at her
side, and when at last she was safely ensconced in the bottom of the
craft that was to bear them shoreward her grandson dropped catlike
after her. So interested was he in seeing her comfortably disposed that
he failed to notice the little package that had worked from his pocket
as he assisted in lowering the sling that contained the old woman over
the steamer’s side, nor did he notice it even as it slipped out
entirely and dropped into the sea.
Scarcely had the boat containing the boy and the old woman started for
the shore than Condon hailed a canoe upon the other side of the ship,
and after bargaining with its owner finally lowered his baggage and
himself aboard. Once ashore he kept out of sight of the two-story
atrocity that bore the legend “Hotel” to lure unsuspecting wayfarers to
its multitudinous discomforts. It was quite dark before he ventured to
enter and arrange for accommodations.
In a back room upon the second floor the lad was explaining, not
without considerable difficulty, to his grandmother that he had decided
to return to England upon the next steamer. He was endeavoring to make
it plain to the old lady that she might remain in Africa if she wished
but that for his part his conscience demanded that he return to his
father and mother, who doubtless were even now suffering untold sorrow
because of his absence; from which it may be assumed that his parents
had not been acquainted with the plans that he and the old lady had
made for their adventure into African wilds.
Having come to a decision the lad felt a sense of relief from the worry
that had haunted him for many sleepless nights. When he closed his eyes
in sleep it was to dream of a happy reunion with those at home. And as
he dreamed, Fate, cruel and inexorable, crept stealthily upon him
through the dark corridor of the squalid building in which he
slept—Fate in the form of the American crook, Condon.
Cautiously the man approached the door of the lad’s room. There he
crouched listening until assured by the regular breathing of those
within that both slept. Quietly he inserted a slim, skeleton key in the
lock of the door. With deft fingers, long accustomed to the silent
manipulation of the bars and bolts that guarded other men’s property,
Condon turned the key and the knob simultaneously. Gentle pressure upon
the door swung it slowly inward upon its hinges. The man entered the
room, closing the door behind him. The moon was temporarily overcast by
heavy clouds. The interior of the apartment was shrouded in gloom.
Condon groped his way toward the bed. In the far corner of the room
something moved—moved with a silent stealthiness which transcended even
the trained silence of the burglar. Condon heard nothing. His attention
was riveted upon the bed in which he thought to find a young boy and
his helpless, invalid grandmother.
The American sought only the bank roll. If he could possess himself of
this without detection, well and good; but were he to meet resistance
he was prepared for that too. The lad’s clothes lay across a chair
beside the bed. The American’s fingers felt swiftly through them—the
pockets contained no roll of crisp, new notes. Doubtless they were
beneath the pillows of the bed. He stepped closer toward the sleeper;
his hand was already half way beneath the pillow when the thick cloud
that had obscured the moon rolled aside and the room was flooded with
light. At the same instant the boy opened his eyes and looked straight
into those of Condon. The man was suddenly conscious that the boy was
alone in the bed. Then he clutched for his victim’s throat. As the lad
rose to meet him Condon heard a low growl at his back, then he felt his
wrists seized by the boy, and realized that beneath those tapering,
white fingers played muscles of steel.
He felt other hands at his throat, rough hairy hands that reached over
his shoulders from behind. He cast a terrified glance backward, and the
hairs of his head stiffened at the sight his eyes revealed, for
grasping him from the rear was a huge, man-like ape. The bared fighting
fangs of the anthropoid were close to his throat. The lad pinioned his
wrists. Neither uttered a sound. Where was the grandmother? Condon’s
eyes swept the room in a single all-inclusive glance. His eyes bulged
in horror at the realization of the truth which that glance revealed.
In the power of what creatures of hideous mystery had he placed
himself! Frantically he fought to beat off the lad that he might turn
upon the fearsome thing at his back. Freeing one hand he struck a
savage blow at the lad’s face. His act seemed to unloose a thousand
devils in the hairy creature clinging to his throat. Condon heard a low
and savage snarl. It was the last thing that the American ever heard in
this life. Then he was dragged backward upon the floor, a heavy body
fell upon him, powerful teeth fastened themselves in his jugular, his
head whirled in the sudden blackness which rims eternity—a moment later
the ape rose from his prostrate form; but Condon did not know—he was
quite dead.
The lad, horrified, sprang from the bed to lean over the body of the
man. He knew that Akut had killed in his defense, as he had killed
Michael Sabrov; but here, in savage Africa, far from home and friends
what would they do to him and his faithful ape? The lad knew that the
penalty of murder was death. He even knew that an accomplice might
suffer the death penalty with the principal. Who was there who would
plead for them? All would be against them. It was little more than a
half-civilized community, and the chances were that they would drag
Akut and him forth in the morning and hang them both to the nearest
tree—he had read of such things being done in America, and Africa was
worse even and wilder than the great West of his mother’s native land.
Yes, they would both be hanged in the morning!
Was there no escape? He thought in silence for a few moments, and then,
with an exclamation of relief, he struck his palms together and turned
toward his clothing upon the chair. Money would do anything! Money
would save him and Akut! He felt for the bank roll in the pocket in
which he had been accustomed to carry it. It was not there! Slowly at
first and at last frantically he searched through the remaining pockets
of his clothing. Then he dropped upon his hands and knees and examined
the floor. Lighting the lamp he moved the bed to one side and, inch by
inch, he felt over the entire floor. Beside the body of Condon he
hesitated, but at last he nerved himself to touch it. Rolling it over
he sought beneath it for the money. Nor was it there. He guessed that
Condon had entered their room to rob; but he did not believe that the
man had had time to possess himself of the money; however, as it was
nowhere else, it must be upon the body of the dead man. Again and again
he went over the room, only to return each time to the corpse; but no
where could he find the money.
He was half-frantic with despair. What were they to do? In the morning
they would be discovered and killed. For all his inherited size and
strength he was, after all, only a little boy—a frightened, homesick
little boy—reasoning faultily from the meager experience of childhood.
He could think of but a single glaring fact—they had killed a fellow
man, and they were among savage strangers, thirsting for the blood of
the first victim whom fate cast into their clutches. This much he had
gleaned from penny-dreadfuls.
And they must have money!
Again he approached the corpse. This time resolutely. The ape squatted
in a corner watching his young companion. The youth commenced to remove
the American’s clothing piece by piece, and, piece by piece, he
examined each garment minutely. Even to the shoes he searched with
painstaking care, and when the last article had been removed and
scrutinized he dropped back upon the bed with dilated eyes that saw
nothing in the present—only a grim tableau of the future in which two
forms swung silently from the limb of a great tree.
How long he sat thus he did not know; but finally he was aroused by a
noise coming from the floor below. Springing quickly to his feet he
blew out the lamp, and crossing the floor silently locked the door.
Then he turned toward the ape, his mind made up.
Last evening he had been determined to start for home at the first
opportunity, to beg the forgiveness of his parents for this mad
adventure. Now he knew that he might never return to them. The blood of
a fellow man was upon his hands—in his morbid reflections he had long
since ceased to attribute the death of Condon to the ape. The hysteria
of panic had fastened the guilt upon himself. With money he might have
bought justice; but penniless!—ah, what hope could there be for
strangers without money here?
But what had become of the money? He tried to recall when last he had
seen it. He could not, nor, could he, would he have been able to
account for its disappearance, for he had been entirely unconscious of
the falling of the little package from his pocket into the sea as he
clambered over the ship’s side into the waiting canoe that bore him to
shore.
Now he turned toward Akut. “Come!” he said, in the language of the
great apes.
Forgetful of the fact that he wore only a thin pajama suit he led the
way to the open window. Thrusting his head out he listened attentively.
A single tree grew a few feet from the window. Nimbly the lad sprang to
its bole, clinging cat-like for an instant before he clambered quietly
to the ground below. Close behind him came the great ape. Two hundred
yards away a spur of the jungle ran close to the straggling town.
Toward this the lad led the way. None saw them, and a moment later the
jungle swallowed them, and John Clayton, future Lord Greystoke, passed
from the eyes and the knowledge of men.
It was late the following morning that a native houseman knocked upon
the door of the room that had been assigned to Mrs. Billings and her
grandson. Receiving no response he inserted his pass key in the lock,
only to discover that another key was already there, but from the
inside. He reported the fact to Herr Skopf, the proprietor, who at once
made his way to the second floor where he, too, pounded vigorously upon
the door. Receiving no reply he bent to the key hole in an attempt to
look through into the room beyond. In so doing, being portly, he lost
his balance, which necessitated putting a palm to the floor to maintain
his equilibrium. As he did so he felt something soft and thick and wet
beneath his fingers. He raised his open palm before his eyes in the dim
light of the corridor and peered at it. Then he gave a little shudder,
for even in the semi-darkness he saw a dark red stain upon his hand.
Leaping to his feet he hurled his shoulder against the door. Herr Skopf
is a heavy man—or at least he was then—I have not seen him for several
years. The frail door collapsed beneath his weight, and Herr Skopf
stumbled precipitately into the room beyond.
Before him lay the greatest mystery of his life. Upon the floor at his
feet was the dead body of a strange man. The neck was broken and the
jugular severed as by the fangs of a wild beast. The body was entirely
naked, the clothing being strewn about the corpse. The old lady and her
grandson were gone. The window was open. They must have disappeared
through the window for the door had been locked from the inside.
But how could the boy have carried his invalid grandmother from a
second story window to the ground? It was preposterous. Again Herr
Skopf searched the small room. He noticed that the bed was pulled well
away from the wall—why? He looked beneath it again for the third or
fourth time. The two were gone, and yet his judgment told him that the
old lady could not have gone without porters to carry her down as they
had carried her up the previous day.
Further search deepened the mystery. All the clothing of the two was
still in the room—if they had gone then they must have gone naked or in
their night clothes. Herr Skopf shook his head; then he scratched it.
He was baffled. He had never heard of Sherlock Holmes or he would have
lost no time in invoking the aid of that celebrated sleuth, for here
was a real mystery: An old woman—an invalid who had to be carried from
the ship to her room in the hotel—and a handsome lad, her grandson, had
entered a room on the second floor of his hostelry the day before. They
had had their evening meal served in their room—that was the last that
had been seen of them. At nine the following morning the corpse of a
strange man had been the sole occupant of that room. No boat had left
the harbor in the meantime—there was not a railroad within hundreds of
miles—there was no other white settlement that the two could reach
under several days of arduous marching accompanied by a well-equipped
_safari_. They had simply vanished into thin air, for the native he had
sent to inspect the ground beneath the open window had just returned to
report that there was no sign of a footstep there, and what sort of
creatures were they who could have dropped that distance to the soft
turf without leaving spoor? Herr Skopf shuddered. Yes, it was a great
mystery—there was something uncanny about the whole thing—he hated to
think about it, and he dreaded the coming of night.
It was a great mystery to Herr Skopf—and, doubtless, still is.