Читать книгу The Day the World Ended - Arthur Henry Ward - Страница 11

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Here was the first copyworthy material which had come to my hand. But how could I use it? To send a thousand-word report to the Daily World covering my visit to the cemetery and my sight of a giant bat was simple enough—and good copy, if editor or readers could believe it. But where the story touched upon Mme. Yburg I must perforce be silent. There is a law of libel in England.

Furthermore, I did not know who Mme. Yburg was.

A mediæval observer would have declared, unconditionally, that she was a vampire, and that Kluster and Paul were her present victims.

I placed the caporal picked up at the cemetery gate in a drawer of my table. I sat staring at a blank writing block. And, consulting my wrist watch, I noted that nearly twenty hours had passed since I had received “the first warning.” What were the links between that inexplicable happening and later events? Why should I obey the warning? ... and what would result if I ignored it?

The unknown dangers of my commission became painfully apparent. Despatches were out of the question. A considered account—after I had left the Black Forest—was the only possible course.

I drafted a telegram, copied it on one of the forms provided in my apartment, and personally took it to the hall porter’s desk for dispatch.

Equipped with two bottles of beer, for an hour and a half, perhaps two hours, I wrote. The dance band at the Casino had stopped. I had not noted the fact consciously: I only realized it when I had finished. My notes brought up to date, I looked at the time.

Half-past one.

Of the first of my three days only an hour and a half remained!

My quarters in the Regal consisted of a long alcove on the ground floor. There was a balcony overlooking the gardens on which I usually took breakfast. Sun shutters, with narrow oblique slats, closed the centre opening. The outer room, in which were writing table, telephone, and other appurtenances, was divided from the bedroom only by a heavy curtain, which during the day was open.

In my case it was open at night as well. I like fresh air. For the same reason I had hitherto raised the shutters, before turning in, not wholly but partly. (They were religiously closed by the chambermaid some time after dusk, to exclude nocturnal insects.)

To-night I left them closed, whilst I searched every foot of the apartment and also the adjoining bathroom. My tour of inspection was completed within a few minutes of two o’clock.

One hour!

As my investigations will have indicated, I had a theory touching the Voice. If it challenged me again—as I half expected—I proposed to test this theory.

Having had little more than two hours’ rest in the past twenty-four, I was desperately sleepy. Nevertheless, until 3 A.M. had come and gone, further sleep was out of the question. I mixed a stiff peg of whisky, lighted my pipe, and settled down in an armchair with Stevenson’s Treasure Island. I knew whole passages by heart; but five minutes in the company of Long John Silver unfailingly brings the tang of the sea to my nostrils. “Here you comes and tells me of it plain.... You’re a lad, you are, but you’re as smart as paint....”

The silence had grown so deep when at last I took leave of the Hispaniola and glanced at my wrist watch that the song of the tiny stream beyond my windows was magnified to that of a considerable torrent. Twice I had heard regular footsteps on the gravel path outside: a night watchman, I had concluded. But no other sound had disturbed me.

Laying my book down, I stood up. My pipe had burned out....

Five minutes to three.

I crossed the room, went into the lobby, and opened my outer door. Beyond, lay a sort of inner hallway, corridors branching off from it. It was empty. A lamp stood on the floor clerk’s table and afforded the only light.

Going over to this table, I stooped to the lamp and fixed my eyes on the minute finger of my watch as it crept to the hour....

Three o’clock!

“Brian Woodville!” said the Voice.

My heart was not beating quite normally. But this time I was certainly prepared for the phenomenon; and I had learned something.

The Voice was not connected with any hidden apparatus in my rooms. It had spoken at my elbow.

I crossed to a glazed swing-door and went several paces along a passage leading to deserted service quarters.

“Brian Woodville!”

The Voice had followed me!

Teeth hard clenched, I returned to the open door of my apartment—and just as I gained it:

“Brian Woodville,” those measured tones continued, “you have two days. This is the second warning. You have two days....”