“Don’t budge, Defoe! I’ve got you covered!”
The Voice was close to his left ear. Its commanding acerbity quelled
Defoe’s impulse to spring to his feet; and as he gripped the arms of
the chair tensely he managed to challenge his unseen intruder:
“Who are you? What do you want here?”
The Voice moved a little upward and back before it answered:
“You’ve just had a nasty dream, Defoe. Perhaps I--”
“How do you know I did!” interrupted Defoe.
“You did, though, didn’t you?” the Voice insisted.
“Yes, but how did you know?” repeated Defoe.
“Never mind how,” said the Voice. “I’ll wager you’ve had the same dream
pretty often in the last dozen years, too. It must be hell to have a
scene like that forever before your mind, so that you’re always in
dread of dreaming about it--”
“What scene?” demanded Defoe. “Are you a mind reader--a wizard--_what_
are you?”
The Voice chuckled.
“None of those,” it said. “As I was saying, you must be afraid, almost,
to go to bed at night. _I_ would be, if I thought I might dream of
sending an innocent man to the gallows--”
“Stop!” Defoe fairly shouted. “Damn it all, come around here where
I can see you!” and he made an instinctive move to turn about and
confront his tormentor.
The firm pressure of an automatic barrel against his temple halted him.
“Don’t make the mistake of turning around!” again warned the Voice
incisively.
Then, in a lighter tone, it went on:
“If I were in your place, Mr. Defoe, do you know what I’d do?”
A pause. Defoe mumbled a faint “No.”
“Well, I either would confess my whole knowledge of the affair--or--I’d
commit suicide!”
Defoe started. It was uncanny, eerie, the way this mysterious Voice put
into words the one gnawing thought that had plagued him the last dozen
years of his life.
“Of course, you probably have contemplated those alternatives very
often,” the Voice continued. “But have you ever considered doing both?
That is, did you ever think that you might confess first, thereby
clearing an innocent man’s name of murder, and then cheat the law
yourself by committing sui--”
“For God’s sake, stop that infernal suicide talk!” Defoe snapped. “In
the first place, I don’t know what ‘affair’ or what ‘innocent man’
you’re talking about.”
The Voice chuckled again. Defoe was beginning to hate that chuckle more
than the feel of the automatic against his head. If the Voice kept on
chuckling it might drive him to desperation to grapple with his armed
inquisitor, even though he would court certain death in doing it.
“Why, there’s no need to explain the obvious,” the Voice replied, its
chuckle rippling through the words. “Your dream ought to tell you that.
Speaking of your dream again, Mr. Defoe, reminds me of a question I
often wished to ask you: Did you see Bland at all after his conviction?”
“No, of course--” Defoe’s guard had been down. He was fairly tricked,
so he tried to run to cover again. “What--who is this Bland you’re
talking about?”
“Come, come, Mr. Defoe,” said the Voice. “Think over your dream a
moment. Surely you remember the man in the prisoner’s dock--the man who
took his sentence with head up, facing the judge like a Spartan! Surely
you remember Richard Bland. But did you happen to see him again after
that day?”
“No,” Defoe said. “Why should I have seen him after my connection with
his case ended?”
“But didn’t you even write him a note expressing your regret at having
had to perform the duty of--”
“Certainly not!” interrupted Defoe. “Who ever heard of a foreman of a
jury doing such a thing? Besides, he deserved his punishment.”
The Voice was silent a moment or two before it replied:
“We’ll discuss the merits of the case later.... And you didn’t even go
to see him hanged?”
“What manner of man do you think I am?” exclaimed Defoe. “Of course I
didn’t! I wasn’t even in Chicago where he was hanged.”
“No?” said the Voice. “Where were you?”
“A few weeks after the trial I had to go to Europe on a long business
trip. I was gone a year or so. When I returned to this country I made
my home here in New York City.”
“So you never even read in the newspapers about Bland--” the Voice
persisted. “I don’t suppose the European papers would bother with a
piece of American news like that, though.”
“No. I never read anything about the case after I left this country,”
said Defoe.
“That’s odd. I’d have thought you would have followed the case through
to the end,” the Voice said, half-musingly. “But still, if you had,
perhaps you would not be here tonight.”
“Why not? What difference would it have made?”
“I don’t know. That’s merely my surmise,” said the Voice.
A faint footstep padded through the hall outside the living-room.
“Is that you, Manuel?” Defoe asked, wondering what would happen when
his Cuban valet encountered the intruder behind the chair.
The footstep halted.
“Si, _senor_,” answered the man-servant, at a respectful distance from
his master’s chair. “I come to see why you sit up so late, _senor_.”
Defoe laughed mirthlessly. “Well, truth to tell, Manuel, I am detained
on business,” and he wondered again how Manuel had escaped noticing the
other presence in the room.
“You mean you fell asleep, _senor_?” asked the valet.
“I did, but some friendly caller has kept me pretty well awake the last
ten minutes.”
“But he has gone? And you come to bed now?” inquired the Cuban.
Defoe, after a pause, said, “Yes; I might as well go to bed, I guess.”
The Voice behind the chair broke in:
“Tell your valet you will smoke another cigar before you retire.”
Defoe settled down again in the chair.
“You heard, Manuel?” he asked. “You see, my visitor says he wishes me
to smoke another cigar.”
“But I see no visitor, _senor_,” said the Cuban.
“You heard what he said, though,” Defoe insisted.
“No, _senor_. I only hear _you_ say he wish you to smoke another
cigar,” explained the valet.
“Well, you ought to have your ears examined, Manuel. Get my box from
the table and hand it to my visitor.”
Manuel fumbled in the darkness until he found the box, then handed it
to Defoe. The latter waved it toward the Voice behind him.
“My guest first, Manuel,” he corrected.
The Cuban stood motionless. “I see no one else,” he insisted.
The Voice interrupted:
“Tell him I don’t care to smoke, Mr. Defoe.”
“I can see no one, _senor_,” the Cuban repeated.
“But didn’t you just _hear_ him?” Defoe cried, leaning forward
nervously.
“No, _senor_, I hear no one speak but you.”
Defoe stared up at his valet, then half rose from his chair.
“Sit down, Defoe!” commanded the Voice sharply.
Defoe sank back once more.
“There!” he exclaimed to his valet. “Now tell me you didn’t hear any
one order me to sit down just then!”
The Cuban shook his head. “No, _senor_, I hear no one talk but you
since I come in.”
His master swore helplessly. “Are you trying to make a fool of me,
Manuel? Do you dare stand there and tell me no one spoke to me?”
“I don’t know, _senor_. I only know I hear no one speak--”
Again the Voice intruded:
“It may be that Manuel thinks you are trying to make a fool of him,” it
suggested.
“Do you?” Defoe asked the Cuban.
“Do I what, _senor_?” the valet asked, placidly.
“Do you think I’m trying to make a fool of you?”
“I do not say so, do I, _senor_?” the servant replied, deprecatingly.
“No, but you heard--or _did_ you hear?--this visitor say it!”
The Cuban, almost tearfully, denied it, becoming verbose in his
protestation.
Defoe flapped his arms on the wings of his easy chair and bade his
valet hush.
“Get out of here, you brown-skinned dumbbell! One of us has gone crazy
tonight!”
The Cuban moved off, keeping a suspicious eye upon his master. His
retreating footstep presently was heard dying away in the hall outside.
“Well, what do you think of that damned little Cuban?” Defoe asked the
Voice. “I wonder what made him lie so brazenly?”
There was no response. Defoe repeated his second question.
Still silence answered him.
“Have you gone, my friend?” Defoe asked, turning part way in his chair
to test the other’s watchfulness. This time no automatic punched his
head and no command wilted him into the depths of his chair again.
Still doubtful of his good luck, Defoe called out once more:
“I say, stranger, have you gone?”
The only sound that greeted his ears was the faint creaking of a window
in the adjoining dining-room. Defoe rose and darted to the connecting
door, snapping on the electric light at the entrance to the dining-room.
The room was vacant of any soul but himself.
All he could see was the slight movement of the lace curtain at the
dining-room window--and when he examined the window he found it latched.
_III._
The next day Defoe went to his doctor. He wished to take stock of
himself; perhaps he had been applying himself too closely to his
business.
“You are badly run down, Allen,” the physician said, almost before he
had sat down with his patient. “You look mentally distressed.”
“I am,” admitted Defoe. “Working too hard, I guess.”
The doctor eyed him keenly.
“Anything else troubling you?” he asked.
Defoe insisted there really was nothing at all beside his work that was
affecting him. So the doctor gave the usual diagnosis: Too much nerve
tension, not enough sleep, not the proper kinds of food. He ended by
advising more rest and quiet.
“And avoid excitement, too,” he warned. “That old heart palpitation
might crop up again, you know.”
It was all very well for the doctor to advise more rest and more sleep,
but how was a man to sleep beneath a Damocles sword of mystery, of
weird forebodings?
It was three weeks before Defoe felt that he was succeeding in obeying
the doctor’s instructions, partly, at least. Then--.
It happened late one night. Defoe lay in bed, his back to the lighted
electric lamp on the table: he had fallen asleep, reading. Suddenly he
stirred at a touch on his shoulder.
“That you, Manuel?” he asked, drowsily. “All right, put out the li--”
“No, it is not Manuel--and don’t bother to turn around, Defoe!” this
last sharply, as Defoe made a movement to arise in bed.
“You again!” Defoe exclaimed. “What--how did you get in?”
“That’s my problem, not yours,” said the Voice. “I merely dropped in
again to inquire if you had thought any more of doing what I suggested.”
Defoe checked an insane desire to leap out of bed and make a break
for the door--anything, to escape this tormentor at his back! But he
remembered the automatic....
He got himself under a semblance of control before he answered:
“Your suggestions were ridiculous. Why should I have anything to
confess about the Bland trial, or why should I commit suicide over it?”
He even essayed a laugh meant to be derisive.
But the intruder chose to ignore Defoe’s evasions. His next remark was
as startling as it was illuminating:
“Did you know,” said the Voice, “that of the other eleven jurors who
convicted Bland, only seven are living--still?”
“No; I haven’t kept track of the other eleven men,” replied Defoe,
annoyed subconsciously by the detachment that the Voice gave to the
word “still.”
“Well, I have,” said the Voice. “Two of the surviving seven are in
insane asylums; two of the four dead committed sui--.”
Defoe could brook it no longer. He wrenched around in bed to grapple
with his antagonist, forgetful, in his madness, of the automatic. But
before he could free himself from the bedclothes the lamp was snapped
out, and Defoe was left ignominiously tumbled in the darkness on the
floor.
A chuckle from the vicinity of the bedroom door told him of his guest’s
departure....
When morning came, after the nerve-racking night, Defoe found it hard
to realize that his two experiences with the Voice really had taken
place. None the less, he knew they were preying on his vitality, on his
brain-functions.
Repeatedly the thought came to him that it was all a dream like his
recollection of the murder trial out of which he had awakened the night
of the Voice’s first visit. But always against the theory of the dream
he placed his remembrance of the feel of the automatic revolver; and,
too, the fact that he had talked with Manuel and with the Voice at the
same time argued against the dream explanation.
Left, then, was conscience--that is, if the visits of the Voice were
simply hallucinations of a distracted mind. But why should conscience
wait for twelve years to haunt and harass him?
The more he pondered it all, the greater became the dread of another
visit from the Voice. The greater grew his fear, too, of losing his
reason, as he sought to analyze the situation from every conceivable
standpoint. With every new bit of theorizing, Defoe felt himself giving
way more and more to melancholia such as he knew is frequently but
the prelude to insanity. Was it possible, he wondered, for a man’s
conscience to drive him to imbecility?
Defoe finally accepted the inevitable.
“Manuel,” he ordered, the second morning after the bedroom encounter
with the Voice, “pack my things. We’re going away.”
“Away, _senor_? Where?”
Defoe’s brain groped vainly for an instant, then seized upon the only
chance.
“The sea--a sea voyage. My nerves....”
Manuel busied himself among Defoe’s clothes. “Do you need many things,
_senor_? Do you go far away--Europe, perhaps?”
“No, no. Just down the coast--Old Point Comfort, I guess. Yes, that’s
it. A week or so of rest. Just my steamer trunk and a suitcase will do.”
The day of the trip down the coast was as perfect as he could have
wanted for his own satisfaction. All during the forenoon the Old
Dominion steamer skirted the Jersey shore line, and Defoe sat out on
deck basking in the sun and already feeling better for the salt-laden
air that he breathed in deeply. In the afternoon he napped most of the
time and when nightfall chilled the deck promenaders he descended with
the rest to the dining-saloon.
It was while sitting in the smoking-saloon, after dinner, that Defoe
first had the impression that he was being watched. A poker game was
going on, lackadaisically, in one corner of the saloon; scattered in
chairs and cushioned seats along the windows were perhaps a dozen or
fifteen men. But, for the life of him, Defoe could not pick out any
one in the room who might be watching him, now he gave his fleeting
impression indulgence long enough to look about him.
Finishing a cigar, Defoe decided on a deck stroll before retiring. It
was too cold and damp, with a fog beginning to gather, to permit of
sitting on deck, so he paced to and fro briskly up near the fore deck
beneath the pilot’s tower. The nervousness of the few moments in the
smoking-saloon, when he imagined himself being watched, transmuted
itself into a shiver as the foggy dampness penetrated to his marrow.
He lit a fresh cigar and puffed at it jerkily as if to generate bodily
warmth. Presently the shiver developed into a veritable shudder such as
precedes chills or certain forms of ague.
Defoe, thoroughly miserable and alarmed now at the fear of sickness on
board ship, chafed his cheeks with his hands and, on his way to the
entrance to the stateroom, he flailed his arms about himself to stem
the onrush of the chill. Once inside the passageway of the staterooms,
however, he felt warmer, and by the time he reached his stateroom door
the chill had subsided almost completely.
He was still uncomfortably cold, though, as he opened the door. With
one hand he unbuttoned his overcoat and with the other he reached
gropingly for the electric light button on the wall. He fumbled around
for it a few seconds, then swore softly in vexation because he had not
noticed by daylight just where it was located.
Groping with both hands, now, he stumbled around the
none-too-commodious room, feeling for the push button on the wall. He
paused once and took inventory of his pockets and cursed his luck for
lack of another match.
Then he went to hunting in the dark again--until his hand came full
against a living body....
_IV._
The body stirred, eluding Defoe’s contact.
Defoe fell to quaking once more, but it was not the trembling of the
chill this time. He opened his mouth to challenge the intruder, and all
he could do was swallow and gag at the words that stuck in his throat.
A pressure against the pit of his stomach--a firm shove of hand upon
his shoulder--and Defoe found himself stepping backward until it seemed
he must have walked the length of the ship. But of course he hadn’t--he
hadn’t even left the stateroom--and suddenly he was tumbled on to the
edge of the berth, the pressure against his abdomen increasing.
A vague nausea gripped him. He clutched at his abdomen and his
fingers wrapped themselves around the barrel of an automatic pistol.
The pressure against his body became unbearable, piercing.... Defoe
crumpled back into the berth and the convulsive effort restored his
speech.
“What the hell are you doing?” he exploded. “Get out of here! What are
you trying to do--stab me with a pistol?”
The incongruity of his question aroused a titter of amusement from the
invisible presence.
“No, I only wished to make sure you weren’t trying to get away.”
That Voice again!--_here_! Defoe cringed in a sort of abject fear.
“What are you--_who are you_?” Defoe struggled to keep his voice
steady, struggled, indeed, to keep his reason from flying out of
balance and shattering into a thousand pieces of driveling idiocy.
“Call me anything you care to,” replied the Voice in the dark.
“I don’t believe you are--_anything_ at all! I think you are all a
dream, a nightmare, a damnable hallucination that I can’t get rid of!
To hell with you! I’m going to go down to the smoking-room and--smoke
you out of my mind! I’m going to stay in the light from now on, day and
night, until I get over this morbid dreaming!”
Defoe really thought he meant it all, until the pressure against his
stomach made him doubt his courage and defiance.
Perhaps it was the nausea--maybe seasickness; he never had thought of
that!--that was griping at his vitals like the insistent pressure of a
steel-barreled weapon.
“Sit down, Mr. Defoe!” commanded the Voice. “I’ve got something to say
to you.”
“To hell with you!” Defoe repeated, almost hysterically now. His hands
clutched at the pressure again--and once more the pistol barrel sent
him squirming back into the recesses of the berth.
“I want to talk to you some more about the Bland case,” went on the
Voice, unperturbed by the other’s outburst. “When are you going to
confess?”
“Confess?” Defoe parried. “Confess what?”
“Confess that you knew Bland was innocent when you convicted him,” said
the Voice.
“But I didn’t.” It was like wrestling with one’s conscience, Defoe
thought, this interminable denying of Bland’s innocence. He was
wearying of it all; his mind was revolting at the repeated “third
degree” of this mysterious Voice. Soon, he feared, his brain would
refuse to function.
“But you’ve said you did,” the Voice insisted.
“When? It’s a lie!” exclaimed Defoe.
The Voice chuckled, sending a shudder through the man crouching in the
corner of the berth.
“You probably don’t know, Mr. Defoe, that for a number of years you
have had the treacherous habit of talking in your sleep--talking
volubly, excitedly, sometimes almost reconstructing entire incidents in
your talk for the benefit of anyone who might happen to be listening.”
“Well?” asked Defoe.
“Simply this: Manuel has overheard enough to--”
“Manuel?” broke in Defoe. “What’s he got to do with it!”
“I forgot to tell you,” the Voice apologized. “The Cuban is my
confederate--former member of the Secret Police of Havana, you know.
I saved his life during the Spanish war and--well, he’s paying back
an old debt, as he calls it. He let me in and out of your house, and
tipped me off about this trip. You see, Manuel had overheard you say,
in your sleep, that you convicted an innocent man of murder. So I knew
your conscience--”
“Are you trying to be my conscience? Are you trying to plague me into
confessing? Are you--”
“No,” answered the Voice, “unless you choose to call me your
conscience. I’m willing. You seem to be in need of one. Do you know,
Mr. Defoe,” and the Voice took on a more affable tone, “you have been
fearfully distracted the last few weeks or months. You need a rest--a
_long_ rest!”
Defoe was silent, hunched in the retreat of the berth. He had no
fight left in him. Presently he fell to whimpering quietly, as a
child does when it is punished beyond endurance and is too frightened
to cry. The Voice, it seemed, missed the old combativeness, gone so
quickly after Defoe’s late outburst, so it prodded the hunted man
with its chief weapon--not its pistol, but its chuckle. This time it
chuckled devilishly, aggravatingly, and it rasped against the tender
sensibilities of the sniveling Defoe like salt in an open wound.
Then something broke what little bonds of restraint remained in Defoe.
He sprang, catlike, to the outer edge of the berth and lunged for
the arm that held the pistol. In the darkness his head struck the
cross-support of the berth above and he slumped forward, half dazed by
the blow.
Again the chuckle sounded in his ears, now ringing with the stunning
impact; and again Defoe lurched forward, only to fall dizzily to the
floor. He clambered clumsily to his feet, gripping the berth for a
momentary prop.
Soon his head began to clear. He was assembling out of the maze of ache
and buzzing in his ears and brain some sort of coherent idea of where
he was and what had been happening.
“Now I know what it all means!” he burst forth presently. “You--you
sneaking, cackling little conscience, get out of here! I’m going to
cheat you if I have to become a drunkard or a dope fiend the rest of my
life! I’m not going to let a conscience, or a voice or a chuckle, drive
me to insanity--or to confessing--or to suicide!”
Defoe was steady enough now, supporting himself against the upper
berth. His voice grew more strident.
“No, I’m not going to let my conscience get the best of me! You thought
you could keep after me endlessly, but I’ll get rid of you. I’m never
going to be bothered with you or your voice again! Never! Now get out
of here! Get out of here, I say!”
The chuckle--a croaking, sepulchral chuckle it was now--answered him
out of the darkness.
“You might tell me, before I go, if you know who really did kill the
man Bland was convicted of murdering,” said the Voice. “I’m curious
enough to wish to know his name.” And the Voice chuckled once more.
“Damn that cackle! I’ll tell you, if you choke off that infernal
cackling! I’ll tell you--_yes_! _I_ can tell you, because _I did it_!
_I_ committed that murder, you understand? _I_ did it! Now cackle
all you want to! And I convicted Bland of it! Cackle, you damned
little shriveled conscience! _Ho, ho, ho-ho-ho!_ I think it’s my
turn--to--cackle--now!”
The words of the hysterical man rose to a maudlin scream that
reverberated piercingly in the little stateroom.
“Now get out of here for good!” the raving Defoe shouted, recovering
coherence of speech after a time. “Get out--before--I--”
A blinding glare of light came as Defoe reached for the door. The
intruder had found the push button.
Defoe stared--then toppled to the floor.
“Bland! _Bland! You! It’s you...._”
And before the stranger that was Bland passed from the room he felt
again of the heart of the craven hulk at his feet. The doctor had been
right: The tumult in the breast of the twelfth juror had been too much.
If only Defoe had known that the Governor had pardoned Bland, his
secret might have been safe forever.
_Walter Scott Story offers
a new conclusion to
Edgar Allen Poe’s
“Cask of Amontillado”_
_The_ Sequel
Sobered on the instant--the padlock had clicked when Montresor passed
the chain about my waist and thus fastened me to the wall--I stood
upright in the little dungeon, the blood running cold in my veins.
With maniacal laughter, he withdrew from the niche, whipped a trowel
from under his robe and began to wall up the narrow opening. I knew it
was not a joke, a drunken jest. I saw that his drunkenness had fallen
from him. The dying flambeau fell from my nerveless hand and cast a
fitful bloody glow upon the whitened, dripping walls. I shook the chain
frenziedly.
“For God’s sake, Montresor!” I cried.
He replied with a horrible, mocking laugh, and, like a devil from hell,
lifted his voice with mine to show that it was idle to call for help.
I had always distrusted Montresor. I knew him to be a serpent. He
feared me and was jealous of my person and attainments. In spite of all
his fawning and his smiles, I knew he hated me deeply for the injuries
I had heaped upon him and for the open insults I had added to them. And
yet I swear he had never in the slightest suspected that it was not
Giovanna, the tenor, who was successful with his wife, but _I_!
“Fortunato!” he called, and his hoarse tone echoed in a ghastly way
through the gloomy catacombs of his ancestors and re-echoed along the
winding crypt.
I made no reply. Cold beads of fear started from my brow as I strained
against the chain and listened to the soft thud of the stones he was
building into the opening to make my tomb and the accompanying tinkle
of his trowel. Even then, I admired, perforce, the cleverness with
which he had secured his revenge.
It was the night of the carnival. He had found me in the streets, dazed
with wine, and, pretending that he wanted my judgment on a cask of
sherry, had lured my staggering feet into the gloomy passages under
his _palazzo_. And he had brought me into this narrow niche in the
castle walls to entomb me alive where no one would ever find me. It was
_clever_!
My memory fails me now, but I doubt not I cried out many times for
pity and mercy; and I take no shame in thinking this may have been so.
I recall his words and his horrible mouthings as he worked with more
haste and zeal than skill.
But I was a brave man always. I did not yield myself to fate. It was
unthinkable. I, _Fortunato_, to die walled in by Montresor! I cursed
him and his line. I wrenched at the chain with ferocious strength, more
eager to have him by the throat than to be free to live. I called upon
all the saints and particularly to my patron saint. You shall see that
I was not unheard.
The wall grew high--to his breast--and in the light of his flambeau set
somewhere in the wall outside I could see Montresor’s sweating face as
he labored with the stones.
Suddenly he thrust his torch through the opening, now no larger than
his head--and to deceive him I prostrated myself upon the floor and
laughed the laugh of a dying man.
I heard the _thud_ of another stone, and looked up quickly. My flambeau
had died out: Montresor’s had disappeared. And there was no opening! I
was in a tomb of stone!
Absolute darkness surrounded me, and the walls seemed to press in upon
me like icy blankets. And silence as absolute as the darkness reigned.
I leaped to my feet. Silence! Silence, absolute silence, save for my
own labored breathing. Maria! Suppose the mortar hardened ere I could
throw my weight against the poor wall he had built. Then I were lost!
I called out aloud to my holy saint. Lucky it was that I had the bodily
strength of two. I strained upon the chain wildly; I seized it in my
hands and tore at it with savage determination. I would not die thus!
In desperation, frantic with rage and fear, I made one last violent,
prodigious effort to free myself, with strength enough to make the
palazzo tremble, and in that last great effort the staples of the chain
tore loose from the half-rotten stone in which they were fastened.
Hot tears of joy welled in my eyes. I vowed a hundred candles to the
Virgin: but I could not then take time to give thanks.
Throwing myself upon the wall Montresor had just reared, my feet
desperately braced on the rough floor, I fought for liberty like a
tiger. Heavens! It _gave_!--the wall gave!
It yielded like a stiff canvas against the push of a hand, gave slowly,
but surely--bulged outward, then went rumbling down! I thrust myself
through the jagged opening into the catacombs. I was free!
What joy if Montresor had been there, even though he wore his rapier
and I had but my poinard!
It was very dark, and yet I could see a gleam of light in the direction
from which we had come, Montresor crazed with the thought of sweet
revenge, I drunk with wine. I paused and thought. Should I find him in
the streets in this gay time and slay him. No! I laughed insanely, yet
clearly. No! There was a better thing to do.
With haste and no mean skill, I built up the wall anew, closing the
opening of what might have been my tomb--had I been a weak man--and
against this new wall erected a rampart of old bones; then, thrusting
the dangling ends of the chain within my doublet, began to retrace my
feet toward freedom.
I struck my foot against some small, soft object, and halted with a
start. I leaned over. I had kicked against Montresor’s mask, and I put
it over my face.
I knew that all of his servants were away to enjoy the carnival, but
it would do no harm to wear this mask--and it served my purpose. I
passed through the crypt and walked back swiftly and steadily through
the range of low arches through which I had come staggering to an awful
doom.
Soon I was above in my false friend’s rich suites in the cheerful glow
of many lights. But all was quiet. No one stirred. I was alone--safe!
I went light-footed through the deserted house--I could hear the shouts
and laughter of the merry people in the street--until I came to the
passage leading to the plaza.
There I stopped, with the blood jumping through my veins like wildfire.
In this hall, in the corner upon a low settee, lay Montresor, sprawling
in a heavy stupor, as drunk with wine as I had been when I had
trustfully entered within his doors. I paused over his body. Within my
bosom was the dagger with which I never part. And yet I let him lie
there unharmed.
When I elbowed my way, masked, through the square, it was twelve
o’clock. I was in time to keep my appointment with his wife! I laughed.
What a jest!
And Montresor’s wife was awaiting me in the usual place. Such a
beautiful woman! I really loved her--and I hoped _he_ did.
I was as clever as I was brave--I was, indeed, an exceedingly clever
man. I had seen my creditors pressing and all things turning toward
ruin, and that was why I had converted everything possible into gold
and precious stones.
That night I crept unseen into my own house, from which my servants,
like Montresor’s, had stolen away to enjoy the carnival, and, securing
all the wealth I had secreted, was up and away, my chain stricken
off by an obscure armorer. I have no doubt that my body-servant was
executed for the theft of my fortune--as indeed he should have been for
watching my belongings so poorly. But I know not.
Then we left the city while the streets were still crowded and
gay--Montresor’s wife and I--and went to England, where we have lived a
long life very happily.
Years ago I heard a vague rumor that Montresor believed his beautiful
wife had gone away with Giovanna, the tenor, who disappeared at about
that time. But it was not so. As for Lady Fortunato--she may have
guessed the truth.
And Montresor will believe until he dies that my bones lie crumbling in
the little walled-in dungeon below his palazzo.
The Weaving
Shadows
_By_ W. H. HOLMES
Chet Burke was lazily reclining in his favorite easy chair, absorbed
in a rare book on alchemy and black magic, when his sister answered a
summons at the door.
In addition to managing the household affairs of the apartment in which
she and Burke lived alone, her duties also consisted in scrutinizing
the many visitors. Most of them could be persuaded to call at the
book stall, which Burke conducted when not devoted to some criminal
mystery that held him until it was solved. Others, whose cases were
urgent, were admitted to the apartment, thus infringing on Burke’s only
recreation, reading and study.
The visitors were Chief Rhyne, a friend of Burke’s, of the Rhyne
Detective Agency, and a stranger.
Burke laid aside his book and greeted the callers with a friendly nod.
Rhyne, a portly, flushed man, settled his sturdy body into a convenient
chair. The stranger, an intelligent-looking man, appeared ill at ease.
He stood self-consciously beside Rhyne, absently running the brim of
his soft hat through browned, muscular-looking fingers.
“Burke,” grunted Rhyne heavily, “meet Mr. Hayden. He is bothered about
a very mysterious affair. It has worked on his nerves until he has
decided to consult an expert. It’s beyond me, so I brought him around
to you.”
Rhyne sighed with relief, and eased back in his chair.
Hayden stuck out a rough, calloused hand to Burke. His bronzed face
flushed slightly at Rhyne’s statement.
“I am more concerned,” he said, in a surprisingly agreeable voice,
“about how you will receive what I have to relate. I can hardly believe
yet that the things exist, although I have seen them three nights in
succession.”
He shook his head in doubt, and sat down mechanically in the chair that
Burke drew up.
While Hayden was gathering his thoughts, Burke quietly sized him up.
Hayden appeared to be a man of about forty-five. His face was deeply
tanned, and his appearance suggested many hours spent out of doors.
Burke noted at once his trait of eying one direct from warm brown eyes.
He was garbed quietly, and evidently in his best. His dark suit was set
off by square-toed shoes, above which glared white socks. A low, soft,
white collar, with a black string tie, completed his obviously habitual
concession to dress. On the whole, Hayden struck the detective as a
wholesome type of the practical mechanic.
“Now, Mr. Hayden,” said Burke musingly, his eyes half closed and
vacant, “state your case fully. We will try not to interrupt you.”
The detective lounged down in his chair, his heavy lips slightly
drooping, and his long legs crossed indolently in front of him. His
eyes had their customary vague stare through the tortoise-shell glasses
that veiled them.
Hayden drew a long breath, then exhaled it in a long sigh. With a brisk
straightening of his shoulders he said:
“I am a carpenter. Until recently, or, to be exact, until four days
ago, I lived in New Orleans. I am a bachelor, and it doesn’t make much
difference to me where I live, so long as I can find work at my trade.
Therefore I came up here, to Sunken Mine, in the Highlands of the
Hudson, to live with a widowed sister and her daughter.”
He paused, and his eyes grew reflective. For a moment he was evidently
measuring his words. With a quick intake of his breath, he resumed:
“My sister lives in an aged, pre-Revolutionary house, deep in the
mountains. It is a lonely place, and a secluded dwelling. At one time
it was probably a restful appearing country farmhouse. Today it is a
weathered frame building, set in a grove of dead and whitened chestnut
trees.
“The house is a one-story-and-attic affair, with rough stone fireplaces
at the side, and a long sloping roof that pitches low at the rear.
Owing to its age and the condition of the place, it is a dreary
spot for one used to the city. My sister affects ancient, antique
furnishings, which does not lessen the impression of living in the
past. As soon as I crossed the door-sill I was affected by this vague,
misty remembrance of being there before.
“It may strike you as strange that my sister picked out a place of
this type to spend the remainder of her days. But she had, to her
and her daughter, good reasons. Both she and my niece are earnest
spiritualists. Both receive messages, and are, in truth, sincere
mediums. For some reason, my sister claims that the atmosphere of the
old dwelling helps them to materialize those that have gone before. I
myself have considerable faith in those things, although I treat it in
a practical manner. I only believe what I actually see. What I am about
to relate, I have both seen and _felt_.”
Hayden paused for an instant to stare earnestly at Burke. The detective
nodded to him to continue.
“I have read deeply,” went on Hayden, “and in my spare time I could
be called a bookworm. I work at my trade, but live much in the past,
especially in books. For this reason, I could be sympathetic to my
sister’s idea of living close to her life’s hobby, or her ‘mission,’ as
she calls it.
“There is one more reason why my sister purchased the place, six weeks
ago. It was the original settling place of the family, before the
Revolution. As the result of a family tragedy, some hundred years or
more ago, the place passed into other hands. Few new buildings are
constructed in that sparsely settled, unfertile section, and most of
the houses have stood for generations. Consequently, the old Hayden
house was never disturbed. At the time it came back into the family it
was vacant and for sale.
“They had been living there about two months when I came there to live
with them. The room I occupied Sunday night is on the second floor. It
is a semi-attic room, lit by one window. Before I came, the room was
occupied by my niece. On my arrival it was arranged for me, and the
girl and her mother occupied a bedroom downstairs.
“It was around eleven-thirty Sunday night when I went to bed, and was
soon asleep. I awoke with the feeling that something was stifling me.
It was as if I had a heavy cold and found difficulty in breathing.
This peculiar sensation of suffocation finally caused me to rouse into
complete wakefulness. The strange smothering seemed to ease as I got
more fully awake. Unable to fall asleep again, I lay looking out of the
window at the stars. The bed is at the end of the room, and the window
was in direct sight.
“The house was intensely still. I noticed this in particular, as
I remarked the absence of the city noises I had been used to. I
can’t recollect that there was so much as an insect stirring. My own
breathing, as in imagination I still struggled for breath, was the only
sound. It appeared to fill the room with a hoarse, rasping murmur. I
likened myself to a dying man, gasping his last breath. This fancy,
to one of my usual practical trend, was perplexing to myself. Still,
in the few moments before the things appeared, my thoughts apparently
dwelt on uncanny ideas. At the same time I was conscious of a queer
tingling of my body.
“As I lay staring at the faint light of the sky, I slowly became
conscious of a singular illusion, or, as I am at times led to believe,
a startling visitation. The dark shadows of the room appeared to be
dancing rapidly before my eyes. They were streaming in long wreaths,
coiling in fantastic spirals, and wafting through the room in wide,
level films of blackness.
“I don’t know how I could see this, but it was plainly visible. Yet the
room, except for the faint light that came from the clear, moonless
sky, was in fairly deep darkness. It seemed that the moving shadows
that formed before my eyes were only discernible because of their
greater density. I can only liken this uncanny movement of the shadows
to swaying and floating clouds of tobacco smoke, when one is smoking
slowly and freely.
“For some moments I watched the movements of the shadows. Then I
observed that they were forming in a more stable order. They were
now lying in long, round coils of blackness, horizontally across the
room, and twisting rapidly. For several moments they lay motionless,
except for their rapid turning, then, as if stirred by a firm direct
breeze, they undulated toward the head of the stairs. This drift
brought several horizontal layers into contact. At the moment of their
touching, the shadows seemed to weave into huge rolls, which streamed
from sight rapidly down the stairs. The room now appeared to grow
lighter, and the air clearer. Also, all sensation of smothering had
left me.
“I lay there quietly after the disappearance of the shadows, pondering
over the strange affair. So far, I was fairly calm, except for the
wonderment of the thing. The return of the shadows was cause of my
fears and suspense as to the final outcome.
“My eyes were gazing absently out of the window, as I had not turned
my eyes from the stairs after the black rolls had streamed down them.
Slowly, so slowly that it scarcely seemed to move, I saw a black,
humanlike form rise above the sill of the window. I could just see
the top of it as it mounted the stairs. I watched it with a keen
realization that it had something to do with the shadows.
“Very slowly, almost imperceptibly, the round, headlike shape continued
to rise. I could now see it plainly, outlined against the lighter
sky. The shape now rose to its full height. It had the form of a
shapeless human figure. That is, I could distinguish the smaller head
shadow above, and what would answer for a body, if one were at all
imaginative. The thing passed beyond the window and drifted into the
darkness at the end of the room. Yet, I could still make out its vague
form by its greater blackness.
“My eyes went back to the window. Another figure was slowly blocking
the cheerful light of the sky. Again a black form emerged to its full
height. It joined the first. I am not a coward. I lay quiet, wondering
what the thing presaged.
“The two figures advanced to the center of the room. They were now
fairly discernible. One of them walked to an old-fashioned dresser
at one side of the room, stood there a moment, then joined the other
figure. With this, both shapes turned and passed down the stairs.
“As they were disappearing, I called. The forms were so clear, and
I was by this time so far from sleep, that my mind hit on a logical
reason to explain the thing. It was evidently my sister and my niece.
They had wanted something from the dresser, and, not wishing to disturb
me, had come up quietly, got what they wanted, and then returned to
their room.
“Getting no answer to my call, I sprang out of bed to convince myself
of the truth of my belief. I went downstairs, and to their room. Both
were in bed and fast asleep. I awoke them. Neither one had been up
since retiring. I did not tell them of the black forms, but made some
excuse for awakening them. The remainder of the night I spent in the
kitchen, sleeping in a large rocking chair.”
Hayden paused and stared at Burke.
* * * * *
“Go on,” said Burke shortly. “This would not have brought you to me.”
Hayden shook his head.
“No,” he said, “it was what came after. This same night, as I arose
from the bed, following the disappearance of the two forms down the
stairway, I had reached the center of the room when I became conscious
of standing in something that was wet to my feet. I was barefooted, and
when I looked at my feet I found them soiled with blood.
“Naturally I thought that I had cut myself; but a close examination
revealed no cut or bruise of any sort. I lit a lamp and went back
upstairs. My first glance was at the spot where I had first felt
the wetness. A glance revealed the cause. Directly in the center of
the bare board floor was a large pool of fresh blood. It was slowly
spreading out over the floor, and sinking into the dry wood. I cleaned
it up as much as possible, and then searched the room thoroughly. There
was absolutely nothing that I could find that would explain the blood.
“The next morning, both my sister and my niece complained of feeling
languid and fagged. My niece, a very white, frail girl, was even more
colorless than usual, and her mother, noticeable for her deep intense
eyes and the black rings that encircle them, seemed listless and
indifferent to everything. Noting this, I scrubbed up the bloodstains
before they made up the room, and said nothing of what I had seen.
“Things were normal until Monday night. Again, about the same hour,
I was awakened by a smothering sensation. Once more I heard my own
breathing as I gasped for air. As I got more fully awake, I found that
the smothering sensation grew more intense. I sat up in bed, crouched
over like one suffering with the asthma, and striving to fill my lungs
with air. But this did not relieve my distress.
“Unconsciously, my eyes were fixed across the dark room. Again occurred
the weaving of the shadows. Panting, stifling, and seemingly unable to
arouse myself enough to get out of bed, I watched the repetition of the
scene of the previous night. Once the horizontal streams of shadows
were formed, my breathing became more normal, and I seemed to regain
the power to move and think clearly.
“I then deliberately waited to see the finish of the affair. The banks
of twisting shadows disappeared down the stairway, and the two figures
repeated their previous trip. As soon as they had descended past the
window, I sprang from bed and lit my lamp. My eyes went at once to the
floor. The pool of fresh blood was there for the second time. I let
it lay and tiptoed down stairs, and to the women’s room. Both were in
a sound sleep, but I was struck at once by the haggardness of their
features.
“I did not awake them. Getting a basin and water, I returned upstairs.
I again scrubbed up the floor, this time with much care, as the stain
had now gone deep into the aged boards. Leaving the lamp lit, I went
back to bed. Finally I fell asleep. Nothing occurred during the
remainder of the night.
“The morning after this second visitation,” resumed Hayden, “I again
remarked the extreme pallor of my niece and the haggard, gaunt face of
her mother. Still, I remained silent, determined to solve the riddle
for myself.
“Last night I retired early, and I took several precautions. First, I
secured an electric flashlight. Next, I powdered the stairs with flour.
I also sprinkled the floor on the attic room. I now had a trap that no
human being, or any mechanical figure, could tread over without leaving
a trace. This done, I blew out the lamp and went to bed.
“I lay awake for a matter of two or three hours. I was determined to
stay awake until the shadows commenced to form, or until I began to
feel the smothering sensation. In this way, I would have a grasp on it
from beginning to end. But in spite of my resolution, I fell asleep.
“I was again awakened by an uncanny feeling. Firm hands, or, rather,
some peculiar force, seemed to hold my arms down on the bed. I sought
to draw up my legs in order to slip out of bed, but found them held by
an unyielding power. Finally, I discovered that I was unable to move
any part of my body. I was certainly awake, yet I was as helpless as a
person in a nightmare, who fancies that his body is totally paralyzed.
“Forced to lay motionless, I saw the black shadows stream from various
parts of the room. This time they formed over my bed. I could feel them
drift across my face, spinning, waving, and twisting and contorting. It
was an unearthly feeling, lying there helpless to avert anything that
might happen. There is nothing I can describe that would be similar
to the feeling of those black forms, ceaselessly in motion. It might
be likened to some invisible force that presses on one, or to a heavy
fog that a person seems to feel in a material manner, with a strong
impression of its dampness and chill.
“This helplessness and the weaving of the shadows went on for
perhaps five minutes. Then, as the twisting rolls started to stream
down the stairs, I could feel my body regaining its power. With the
disappearance of the materializing forms, I became physically and
mentally myself again.
“I then got the electric torch in my hand, ready to flash it at the
proper moment. The figures rose above the stair, and I directed the
bulb of the light toward them. I waited until they advanced to the
center of the room, then I threw on the light.”
* * * * *
Hayden wiped his mouth with a trembling hand. His lips were dry, and
his face flushed.
Then, with a slight shudder, he went on:
“At the instant of the flash, the darkness of the figures was gone.
Instead, I saw two faces. They were inhuman, horrible, and impossible
to describe. They leered at me with their shadowy, devilish faces,
scarcely discernible in the glow of the torch. They seemed to be
mocking me. They were corpse-looking and repulsive, but the eyes
were terrible. They were full and real, and glowing, with a hellish,
vengeful fire. But with all the horribleness of the faces, it was not
they that held me motionless.
“It was at that moment that I discovered the source of the blood. It
was dripping out of the air, and falling in a steady patter. I glanced
up at the ceiling, but it was firm and unbroken. While I watched--it
was scarcely a second--the drops seemed to form in the air above the
floor. They were rapidly ceasing when my nerves gave way for the
moment, and I let out an involuntary yell. With the cry, the dripping
blood suddenly ceased and the faces vanished.
“This brought me to my senses. I sprang from bed, determined to see
the thing through. My first act was to scan my trap. I followed the
flour down the stairs, but it lay in a white, unbroken dust, as I had
scattered it. That night, also, I looked in on the women. Both were
sound asleep. But I was deeply shocked by their distorted faces. Shaken
both mentally and bodily, I once more spent the rest of the night in
the kitchen rocker.
“And now I want some one to go up there with me, examine the house, and
spend the night in the room. I am troubled, nervous, and frightened:
both for myself and for those with whom I live.”
“I will go there with you,” replied Burke evenly, “and I think the two
of us should accomplish something. We can probably handle two shadowy
forms.”
Hayden smiled dolefully.
“They handled me last night,” he said ruefully. “I’m a pretty strong
man, but something held me as helpless as a baby.”
* * * * *
Burke alighted at a lonely way-station, standing on a strip of land
between a wide marsh and the Hudson.
The marsh ran to the foot of the mountains, and lay sear and rippling
in the September breeze. Hayden had stated that the dwelling stood back
in the hills, a distance of some five miles. On Burke’s suggestion,
they started to walk. Burke wanted to study the country, and,
incidentally, study his companion.
The country he found to be sparsely settled. The road wound up through
forest-clad rocky hills. The dwelling stood beside a wide stretch of
woods, with cleared fields to the north.
Burke scanned the dwelling as he approached it, and found it to be the
usual type of farm house of a century ago, buried among dead trees.
The interior of the house was in keeping with the exterior. Oval
frames held old prints, horse-hair upholstered, massive dark furniture
contrasted with tables and stands covered with white marble tops,
the chairs squatted grimly in the quiet rooms and rested on dull
rag carpets. The woman and her daughter struck Burke like beings
transported from the misty past.
The mother was a tall, sparse woman, with heavy black rings about the
eyes. The eyes, black and dreamy, held Burke with a steady, unwinking
stare. The daughter was the opposite of her dark, sallow mother. She
seemed a lifeless, colorless sprite, seemingly alive by the power and
vigor of her more intense mother. She was about twenty years of age,
although her chalky face, and thin, bloodless hands, together with her
slight frame and indolent movements, seemed to signify an elder age, or
some wasting disease. Both were of the dreaming, musing type, speaking
softly and briefly, and moving silently about the quiet house, and both
were garbed in dresses of white material.
Burke’s first act was to visit the room upstairs. There was nothing to
warrant his attention except the stained floor. He ripped up several
splinters and put them in his pocket. He then announced his intention
of visiting the nearest town, several miles to the south.
Hayden asked no questions, evidently placing the affair entirely in
Burke’s hands. He remarked that he would “walk down a ways” with the
detective, and await his return.
The two women were still unaware of Burke’s vocation, and accepted
without comment Hayden’s statement that Burke was a friend that was to
remain over night.
* * * * *
As soon as Burke arrived in town, he went at once to the Chief of
Police. Here he inquired for some one qualified to make an examination
of the bloodstained splinters. He was directed to a doctor who
maintained a laboratory. The latter, after a lengthy analysis,
confessed himself puzzled. Something was missing in the composition. He
could not account for the peculiar results he obtained. It was human
blood--and yet it was not.
Burke returned to the Chief of Police and inquired about the Haydens.
The Chief was unable to give Burke any satisfaction, but directed
him to an old settler in the vicinity who could probably furnish the
desired information.
Burke found the family without trouble. They were willing to talk, but
they knew very little about the Haydens--though a good deal about the
house.
Over a hundred years before, they said, a widow and her niece had
lived in the then new dwelling. The place, a flourishing farm, which
had since been cut up and sold off, was managed by the woman’s
step-brother. The family were more or less secluded, and seldom seen.
In the course of weeks it was noticed that no one had seen the two
women. The brother was at the house alone, and refused to talk. This
led to an investigation. No trace of the women was found. The brother
was never brought to trial, continued to live on the place until he
died of old age, and had prospered. His heirs had taken over the
place, and it had been gradually dissipated, until only the house and
an acre or so of land remained.
Burke listened politely, then, thanking the old couple, returned to the
Hayden house. Hayden was awaiting him.
That evening, Burke sat beside the open fireplace, listening to the
low, earnest conversation of the others. The woman and her daughter he
observed closely. They seemed to be possessed of some restless emotion
that caused them to wander aimlessly around. On the contrary, Hayden
appeared to be sluggish and incapable of extended speech. This struck
Burke as queer, as he had remarked the vivid description Hayden had
given of the attic room.
At ten o’clock the women announced their intention of retiring. Bidding
the two men good-night, they withdrew to their rooms. Burke and Hayden,
the latter almost stupid and listless in his movements, went up the
narrow stairs to the room above.
Both lay on the bed fully robed. Burke saw Hayden take a revolver from
his pocket and shove it under his pillow.
“What shall we do?” asked Hayden heavily, seemingly unconscious of
anything around him and staring vacantly at the ceiling.
“Well,” replied Burke quietly, “first, we will blow out the lamp.”
He got out of bed and put out the light. Returning, he crawled on
the further side of Hayden, leaving Hayden on the outside. Burke had
no desire to be on the firing side of the revolver in the event that
Hayden should start shooting.
The detective lay for an hour, pondering over the strange case. Finally
he spoke to Hayden. The latter did not reply. He was apparently fast
asleep. Yet, as Burke listened closely, he could discern no signs of
the latter’s breathing.
Burke now experienced a singular emotion aroused by the intense
silence of the room. The longer he lay the more impressive it became.
Downstairs he heard the low chime of a clock. It struck eleven. The
minutes lagged along in the forbidding silence.
The clock chimed the half hour. Fifteen more minutes passed. Hayden,
breathing heavily now, commenced to move. Burke half arose on his elbow
and listened. Hayden was muttering in his sleep.
Burke eyed the dark shadows of the room with keen eyes. Nothing met his
gaze. He glanced to the window. Nothing there. Hayden was suffering
tortures in his struggle for breath.
The detective was on the point of shaking him, when, with a heavy,
prolonged gasp, Hayden sat up. Burke sensed the horror of the man, yet
he remained motionless. His eyes were fixed on the dark, silent room,
wandering frequently to the window.
Nothing unusual was to be seen, and he watched the vague form of his
bed-mate. The latter was now rigid, struggling with the weight that
oppressed his lungs, and apparently staring off into the room. Then, to
Burke’s amazement, Hayden started to breathe normally.
“Burke,” he whispered hoarsely, “did you see it? Did you see them pass
down the stairs?”
“Eh?” grunted Burke sleepily.
“My God!” muttered Hayden, “you were to watch, and you fall asleep.
They have gone down the stairs. They’ll come back again in four or five
minutes. Watch!”
Burke made no reply. He, with his wide-awake companion, was staring
intently at the window. Suddenly he felt Hayden stiffen.
“The head is just coming up the stairs!” whispered Hayden.
Burke felt the movement of Hayden’s arm as it slid under the pillow.
Then came the blinding flash of the revolver and its roar. Twice Hayden
pulled the trigger. By that time Burke had flashed on his electric
torch. The room was empty. Burke glanced at the floor. No blood was
visible.
Hayden was panting and rocking back and forth.
“I feel awful queer,” he groaned. “Something is dragging me.”
Mechanically he arose from the bed and stumbled onto the floor.
“It tells me to kill, _kill_!” he mumbled. “Kill with my revolver.
Kill--who shall I kill?”
Burke silently followed the plodding form of the other. With measured
steps Hayden stalked to the stairs and passed down, with Burke close
behind.
Hayden led the way directly to the room of his sister and niece.
Without hesitating, his fingers grasping a loaded “Billy,” Burke
trailed close and waited for the moment when he should be needed.
Hayden appeared unconscious of the light furnished by Burke’s torch,
nor did he once turn on the short journey. Reaching the side of the bed
in which the women were sleeping, he paused and stared rigidly down.
Burke joined him. His light was now on the two women. He was struck by
the horrible contortions of the faces, seemingly drawn in agony.
With a sudden premonition, he bent down and felt the motionless forms.
The girl’s hand was limp and lifeless. He felt the pulse of the older
woman.
_Both were dead!_
* * * * *
The detective turned to Hayden.
He was staring down, dry-eyed.
“I see,” he said stupidly, “both dead. Kill, _kill_--who was I to kill?
Not them. They’re dead. Something still tells me to kill!” He sank into
a chair and buried his face in his hands.
Burke lit a lamp that stood on a heavy dresser and put out the torch.
He stood looking down at the two women. He then noted that the room was
growing shadowy. He glanced at the lamp. It was full of oil and the
wick seemed to be burning freely, yet the light continued to lower.
Burke again glanced at the two women. Slowly, almost invisibly, he
fancied that the agonized features were changing to the repose of death.
Hayden arose and came to the detective’s side. He was muttering and
softly moaning. Burke watched him.
Hayden, with a sudden start, looked across the room.
“They’re coming back!” he mumbled, “weaving and twisting.”
His eyes moved slowly from the opposite side of the room as if he were
following some moving object. They came to rest on the women’s faces.
“Streaming down their mouths!” he muttered. “They’re sucking in the
twisting rolls. _They’re coming to life!_”
Burke glanced at the women. In the dim light he could have sworn that
he saw traces of returning life. At that moment there came a crashing
report at his side and a blinding flash.
With that, the light flared up bright, and the dead faces were
revealed. Burke whirled around.
Hayden was sinking to the floor, a bullet hole in his head, from which
the blood was slowly starting to emerge. Burke sank beside the man and
lifted his head.
Slowly the heavy form relaxed. Hayden opened his eyes to stare with
bewilderment at the detective.
In another moment he was dead.
Burke placed the body on the floor and went to the bed. Once again
he endeavored to find a trace of pulse in the still forms. Both were
lifeless. He fancied that both dead faces bore a peaceful look, and
on the elder woman’s slightly-opened lips there seemed to hover an
exultant smile.
Closing the room, Burke got his coat and belongings, then locked up
the house. Some hours later he was sitting with the Chief of Police,
relating the tragedy. The Chief drove with Burke to the Sheriff of the
county, and together they went to the house. The Sheriff had called up
the coroner, and they found him waiting for them.
A brief examination of the women revealed that both had died of heart
failure, probably induced by some unexplainable shock. Burke took the
Sheriff aside. On the detective’s suggestion, they wrecked the attic
room in a thorough search. Burke wanted to locate the source of the
dropping blood.
At the conclusion of their quest the mystery was finished, for Burke.
But it was to Rhyne that he confessed his failure.
Returning to his apartment in New York, he found Rhyne there.
“Well,” cried the latter, as soon as he appeared, “did you solve the
mystery?”
“No,” replied Burke. “I did not.”
Rhyne’s eyes opened. “Well--what did you find?”
“Over the attic room,” said Burke musingly, “we found a small,
cryptlike space between the ceiling of the attic room and the roof of
the house. It was encased in plaster. As we broke through the ceiling,
a mass of human bones came tumbling down. The coroner pronounced them
the skeletons of a woman and a girl. Both had been dead for generations.
“Through the shoulder blade of the girl’s skeleton was a jagged hole.
When the bones fell, the elder woman’s skull rolled to my feet. I
picked it up. Something rattled inside and I worked it out through the
eye socket. It was a slug of lead.
“Both the woman and the girl had been murdered.”
Queer Tribe of Savages
Found in Africa
One of the strangest tribes in Africa is that of the El Molo. Ruled
by a blind chief, they live on an island near the east shore of Lake
Rudolf in East Africa, their shelter being crude huts fashioned from
palm leaves. They live entirely on fish, which they spear and eat raw,
and they drink nothing except the water in the lake, which the white
man considers unfit to drink. It is said they cannot live for more than
an hour without water, their lips swelling and bleeding if they try to
go longer. They use a language of their own, different from that of the
other African tribes.