“YELLOW”
When he first went to work on the case of Reeves’ mysterious
disappearance, Cole had been shown several photographs of the missing
man. Along the numerous twistings of the trail, he had carried with him
a mental picture of a fine intellectual face, deep and rather somber
eyes, a long nose, whose slenderness hinted at aristocratic breeding,
a clean-cut jaw that denoted a great deal of aggressiveness, and lips
that were a trifle too full and might have suggested sensuality, if the
broad slope of the forehead had not conveyed a dominant impression of
the student and the thinker. The picture in Cole’s mind had represented
a man about fifty years old, with a virile personality and quiet tastes.
The contrast between his mental image of Malcolm Reeves and the
miserable creature, now sitting a few feet away, was so sharp that the
comparison gave Cole a profound shock. His clothing hung loosely over
his bony frame, and he seemed to have aged decades in the three weeks
that had elapsed since his disappearance. His shoulders were hunched
down a little, his head was bent forward, and the eyes stared rigidly
into space, as if he were seeing something in the distance. His lips
were twisted into a fixed, vacant smile that impressed Cole as the most
hideous thing he had ever seen.
He tried to spring from the cot, momentarily forgetting that his arms
and legs were bound. He sank back with a mutter of exasperation. Not
much imagination was required to guess that the men who had brought
about his own plight were also responsible for the condition of Malcolm
Reeves.
Again something drew his glance to the insane man. The revolting
picture seemed to hold Cole with an uncanny fascination. “What’s
happened?” he inquired, realizing a moment later that he might as well
have addressed a wooden image.
Reeves was still gazing fixedly at the opposite wall. There was a look
of insane glee in his shrunken eyes. He bent forward a little more, and
then his lips began to move. “Yellow,” he said. “Pretty yellow!”
The soft-spoken words and the giggle that followed caused Cole to
shudder. He could see that Reeves’ mind, or the pitiful remnant of it,
was reveling in some childish fancy. The wreckage of a once splendid
intellect was horrible to behold.
“What do you see?” he asked, wondering whether the man was capable of
any form of response.
The other’s face brightened, but Cole thought it was only an external
glow, a reflected light rather than one kindled from within. He
recoiled inwardly as another stream of giggling mirth flowed from the
insane man’s lips.
“Yellow,” said Reeves again. “Pretty yellow!”
His expression became more rapt. His smile grew broader and deeper, but
to Cole it seemed nothing more than a contortion of facial muscles.
He wondered whether the two words were all that was left of the man’s
vocabulary. He felt a desire to test him and see if there was not a
remaining scrap of intellect that could be aroused.
“Listen, Mr. Reeves,” he said sharply. “When did you last see Professor
Carmody?”
The giggling ended in a quick intake of breath. Reeves’ smile faded
as abruptly as if an invisible hand had blotted it out. Watching him
intently, Cole could see that his question had touched a slumbering
chord in the man’s mind. Fear and something akin to hate blazed in the
shrunken eyes. It was a startling transformation, and Cole observed it
in wonder. He had mentioned Carmody’s name on the spur of a vagrant
impulse, wondering whether it would awaken a recollection in the débris
of Reeves’ intellect. The effect was far beyond his expectations.
“Carmody!” said the insane man, and each syllable cut like a knife
through the silence. “Carmody!”
He drew a shaking hand across his brow, and Cole fancied something was
stirring in the dark corners of his mind. His face took on a strained
look, as if he was trying to exercise the shattered remnants of his
intellect. There was a flicker of returning sanity, a feeble ray of
awakening reason.
It did not last long. Reeves gave a little shudder, there was a
trembling gleam in his eye, then the fatuous grin came back to his
lips, and once more he mumbled in rapt tones: “Yellow. Pretty yellow!”
Cole turned his head away with a shiver. His experiment had shown the
hopelessness of the insane man’s condition, but it had also suggested
several things to Cole. A recollection of a terrifying nature
seemed to be buried in the wreckage of Reeves’ mind, and evidently
it had something to do with Professor Carmody. Cole had felt certain
for a long time that the professor was responsible for the man’s
disappearance, but he had not cared to jeopardize his case by taking
action before he had sufficient evidence in his possession, as a
premature move on his part might have brought disastrous results. At
that time he had not been sure whether the missing man was dead or
alive. If still living, his safety might be endangered by hasty action,
for Carmody would not hesitate to kill him if he thought it advisable.
So Cole had waited, patiently biding his time and slowly, but surely,
strengthening the meshes in which he hoped to entangle the professor.
Now he wondered to what extent his course had been correct. The
maniac’s startling reaction to the mention of Carmody’s name seemed to
confirm at least a part of his theory. What he could not understand
was how Reeves, granting that the professor was responsible for his
abduction, happened to be in this place of dark intrigue and baffling
mystery. Evidently there must be a connecting link between Professor
Carmody and the seven masked men who had sat around the circular table.
Likely as not they were accomplices, banded together for the attainment
of some secret object. That would at least explain why the seven men
were so determined that Cole should drop the Carmody case, though it
explained nothing else.
A slight sound interrupted the speculations with which he had tried
to relieve the tension he felt. He turned his head a little and saw
that the door had opened a crack. A hand was inserted through the
narrow opening. For a moment it fumbled over the wall, then came a
faint click, and once more the room was dark. Men were moving about in
the black for a time, and then all was quiet. The silence seemed to
indicate that Cole was alone in the room, but he had an indefinable
feeling that some one was standing beside his cot. In a moment his
impression was confirmed.
“Mr. Cole,” said a voice, and he recognized it at once, “I trust that
what you have just seen has put you in a more reasonable frame of mind.
Unless you comply with our wishes we shall do to you what we did to
Malcolm Reeves.”
Cole strained spasmodically against the cords that fettered his hands
and feet. In the darkness his imagination sketched a picture of Reeves’
hideously grinning face. For a moment he could almost hear the maniac’s
insane cackle. He banished the vision by sheer force of will.
“There’s a great deal of finesse about your methods,” he ironically
observed. “I guessed, of course, that Reeves was brought in here to
serve as an object lesson to me. It was quite impressive.”
“And you have reconsidered?” asked the other hopefully.
Cole lay absolutely still on his back. It was all he could do to
exclude the disturbing pictures of Reeves from his mind. Whenever a
glimpse of it came back to him he felt a weakness that put him in fear
of himself. “Not exactly,” he managed to say in steady tones. “I have
merely been taking my own measure, as it were, trying to determine
whether the loss of pride and self-respect is worse than the loss of
one’s sanity.”
“And what is your conclusion?”
“I am still in doubt. There are so many ways of looking at the
situation. For instance, one thing to be considered is that lost
self-respect may be regained, while insanity is in most instances
incurable.”
“Excellent,” murmured the other. “That’s a very rational way of looking
at the proposition. Such being the case it should not be difficult for
you to choose between the two alternatives.”
“But it is,” protested Cole. “There is still another thing to be
considered. Suppose I were to accept your terms. All I could give you
would be my word of honor that I would live up to them.”
“Quite sufficient,” the other put in. “We know you are not the kind of
man who goes back on his word.”
“Thanks,” said Cole sarcastically. “Just the same one’s word of honor
is a rather intangible thing. You can’t bind me with a contract. It
would not be legal, no matter how ingeniously worded, and it might
incriminate yourselves. I am not in position to give you any pledges.
You would have to be content with my bare promise. It would be
sufficient in any ordinary case, but circumstances alter everything. I
realize I am at the mercy of a gang of unprincipled scoundrels.”
“Your epithets don’t hurt us in the least,” remarked the other man
icily.
“Didn’t expect they would. But don’t you see that, under the
circumstances, I would have no hesitancy at all about giving you a
promise that I didn’t intend to keep? I am not a bit quixotic, and I am
too practical to indulge in cheap heroics. I have no ambition to become
the hero of a tawdry melodrama. In order to escape a fate like the one
you inflicted on Reeves, I would promise anything, and so would every
other man whose head isn’t full of moonshine. You follow me?”
“Perfectly. You are trying to make out that we have no hold over you.
Your reasoning isn’t bad, but you forget one thing. As it happens, we
are in a position to exact a pledge from you, one that will hold you to
us for life.”
“What is it?”
The other gave a soft laugh. “You saw what a hopeless case Reeves is.
There’s no reason why he should go on living any longer. The merciful
thing to do is to put him out of his misery.”
“You mean——”
“Exactly, Mr. Cole. You are to seal the promise you give us by hustling
Reeves off to a better world. We have planned it so that we will be
able to prove that you killed him. Having incriminated yourself to that
extent, and with the evidence in our possession, we need have no fear
that you will go back on your word of honor. And now that we thoroughly
understand each other, I must ask you to decide promptly. Our time is
valuable.”
A few moments passed in silence, but to Cole they were like weeks.
Never before in all his life had so many thoughts and emotions been
crowded into such a narrow space of time. He felt weak and shaken when
it was over, but his voice was clear. “My answer is no,” he declared.
“If I were able I would give it to you in a more emphatic manner.”
“Sorry, Mr. Cole,” replied the other. “I won’t accept your decision
as final, however. I trust you will reconsider before you become
unconscious under the ether.”
With that he went out, leaving an ominous silence behind him. Cole
tore frantically at the cords around his wrists, but they only cut the
deeper into his flesh. He could see no escape from the awful fate that
awaited him. Time and again the picture of Reeves’ fatuously grinning
face came back to him, causing him to writhe in mental torment. A
tempting voice seemed to whisper in his ear, turning his thoughts into
strange channels. To end a life that was worse than a living death
appeared not such a dreadful thing to do. Cole himself would have
preferred to die rather than suffer a fate like Reeves’. If he should
ever fall into such a condition he would consider the man a benefactor
who ended his misery.
He shook himself violently. A clammy perspiration was bathing his
forehead. With a mental and physical paroxysm he brushed away the
temptation to which he had nearly yielded a moment ago. Footsteps
were approaching the door, and he knew a critical moment was at hand.
Something within him that was stronger than reason and logic shrank
from the mere thought of taking Reeves’ life. He wondered if there was
no other alternative.
He tried to take a calm view of the situation. Though his hands and
feet were tightly bound his persecutors evidently had not thought it
necessary to strap him to the cot, since he would soon be under the
influence of the ether. By experimenting he found that he could turn
over on his sides and, thanks to the fact that his hands had been tied
in front instead of behind, he was able to move his arms up and down
and in a horizontal direction. Since he could not use his hands he did
not see how he could turn this circumstance to his advantage, yet it
continued to tantalize his imagination.
The door opened, and his ears told him that several men were entering
the room. For a time they moved about in the darkness, as if making
preparations of some sort. After a little the footsteps receded, and
then the door opened and closed once more. Cole guessed that all but
one or two of the men had withdrawn. After another brief delay, the
lights flashed on once more, this time illuminating a different scene.
Reeves was back in the room, occupying the same chair in which he had
sat the other time, but now his limbs were as tightly manacled as
Cole’s own. He moved his head slowly from side to side, as if sensing
something unusual in the air, but his vacant stare showed that he had
not the faintest inkling of what was going on.
After a glance at him, Cole looked away. Not far from the cot stood a
tall man with a black beard that covered nearly his entire face. He
was holding a number of surgical implements to the light, giving each
one a critical inspection before he placed it on a small table with a
glass top that stood beside the cot. Cole could not restrain a shudder
as he saw how calmly the man examined the sinister-looking little
tools. There was a professional air about him that in Cole’s mind
stamped him as a surgeon.
Again his glance moved to the insane man, whose dull gaze seemed to be
taking in each detail of the scene. The meaning of the little knives
and the presence of the black-bearded man was terrifyingly clear.
The surgeon placed the last of the knives on the table beside the
cot. They lay there in plain view, so close to Cole that if his hands
had been free he could have reached out and touched them. The long,
slender metal blades gleamed diabolically in the electric lights, and
he wondered if they had been placed like that for the sole purpose of
impressing their hideous significance upon him.
The black-bearded man came closer to the cot, and Cole caught a full
view of his face. He had seen it once before, though only dimly,
for the surgeon was one of the seven who had sat in the dusk at the
circular table. He had worn a mask then, but the black beard, the high
forehead and the bald spot on top of his head were unmistakable. Now
his features were unveiled, and in this circumstance Cole saw a grim
significance. The surgeon no longer had any reason to fear that Cole
might recognize him if they should meet again.
He stopped beside the glass-topped table and, with hands clasped at his
back, fixed a tranquil gaze on the reclining man. “You have one more
chance, Mr. Cole,” he remarked in a casual tone. “Hadn’t you better
reconsider your refusal?”
Cole looked up into the bearded face with a feeling that there was
something peculiar about it, but his mind was too agitated to analyze
the impression. In a playful manner the surgeon picked up one of the
knives, holding it so that the light flashed against the keen blade.
Cole was trying to frame an answer, but just then something drew his
gaze to the insane man. Reeves was straining forward in his chair,
bending his weight against the fettering cords. From where he sat he
had a clear view of both Cole and the surgeon, and his eyes were fixed
with wild intensity on the knife in the latter’s hand. Time and again
he opened his lips, but the only sound that came was a hoarse rattle in
his throat.
“Well, Mr. Cole?”
The surgeon, paying no attention to the lunatic, looked impatiently
at Cole. Reeves, with mouth gaping and features horribly distorted,
continued to stare at the knife.
“You refuse?” The surgeon waited a moment longer for an answer; then,
with a shrug, he replaced the knife and stepped aside. Cole felt a
sudden rush of blood to his head. If he was to escape a fate worse than
death he must act at once. He spurred his wits to think of something
to do. A tinkling, like that of a jar or a bottle being moved, sounded
in the room. Again he bent his mind to the seemingly hopeless task
of finding a way out, but, even in this moment of desperate peril, he
could not take his gaze from the insane man’s face.
Reeves sat with shoulders hunched up and head turned a little to one
side. Now and then his mouth twisted at the corners; from time to time
a shudder broke the tension of his figure. A series of slight gurgling
sounds fell on the stillness at intervals. All the while his eyes, with
a smoldering something in their depths, were fixed on the knives spread
out on the glass-topped table.
Suddenly Cole’s body executed a little writhing motion. His nostrils
sucked in a strong, sickening odor. With a sponge in his hand, the
surgeon was coming toward the cot.
Once more, in a delirium of suspense, Cole glanced at the insane man.
The quick dilation of Reeves’ nostrils told he also had noticed the
ether. The chair creaked as he put his weight against the cords. There
was a look on his face that Cole felt would follow him through the
night of madness that threatened to engulf him. Reeves’ chest heaved
violently, his whole body seemed to be rocked by a tumultuous emotion,
and finally a long and oddly vibrant cry broke from his lips.