Читать книгу Sinister Island (Supernatural Mystery Book) - Charles Wadsworth Camp - Страница 5

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Anderson found a beginning difficult. When at last he spoke his voice was low and there were uneven pauses between the words.

“I wanted to come right out and explain the situation,” he said. “Then, if you choose, you can pull out of here in the morning. Molly and I talked it over when your letter came. It seemed the only fair thing. But it means telling you in cold blood, and I swore to Molly I couldn’t do that. I said you’d call me a superstitious idiot or suspect me of sun stroke. In either case you’ll have to include Molly in your diagnosis, and you know how sensible she is.”

“Yes, and how sensible you’ve always been,” Miller said. “You don’t mean to say you’ve let this lonely hole get on your nerves?”

“I pray that’s what it is,” Anderson replied eagerly, “—just nerves. That’s why we want to use you—as a sort of test. The truth is we’re under the spell of this place, and things are happening—unnatural things—things that we can’t explain in any believable way.”

Miller tried to smile.

“Sounds as though you were haunted.”

“And that’s what it seems like. I didn’t want to say it myself. It isn’t pleasant to be laughed at even when the laugh is justified.”

For the second time that day Miller promised not to laugh at anything he might be told about Captain’s Island. He was conscious, indeed, of a sharp mental struggle before he had subordinated the impressions he had received himself coming through the Snake and into the inlet.

“I agree not to laugh,” he said, “but you must understand in the beginning that I can’t take any supernatural talk very seriously. I have no manner of belief in such rot.”

“After all, Jim,” Anderson answered, “that’s the way I want you to talk. It’s what we need—somebody with a powerful will like yours and a contempt for the uncanny to straighten us out and bring us back to commonsense.”

“Why the deuce have you stayed on if you’ve been so unhappy?” Miller asked.

“Because we can’t yield to a superstition we’ve never acknowledged. We can’t go back to the world, convinced of such madness. Molly is more determined than I. We’ve sworn for our peace of mind the rest of our lives to stay on until every hope of a natural solution is gone. You’re just about our last hope.”

“This isn’t like you,” Miller said. “Frankly, Andy, it’s folly.”

“Our only excuse for such folly,” Anderson answered warmly, “is that we’re not the only reasonable people to confess it. There’s Morgan who lives in the big house. You must have seen it when you came in. He’s more your own sort—absolutely balanced, with a strong will. You’ll like him, Jim. He’s been our only prop. But little by little I’ve seen his confidence dwindle, and his uncertainty and worry grow. Then there’s Bait, a federal judge in Martinsburg. He brought us down here in the first place.”

“That’s how you found it?”

“Yes. Bait was a friend of Molly’s father. When we were going through Martinsburg on our way to Cuba in January he made us stay over for a few days. He has a fast cruising launch. He knew I was an artist, and he thought I’d enjoy seeing this fascinating combination of jungle, water, and sand. It was a brilliant day, and we came down so fast the island seemed only a step—a charmingly isolated suburb of Martinsburg. Jim, the place seemed to grasp me physically, and to demand, since chance had brought me, that I stay and put on canvas its beauty and the mystery that tantalised even at noon. I felt I had found the inspiration for a new note, for the building of a real reputation. And everything favoured the scheme. The coquina house would do. The fact that we would have neighbours in the plantation house settled Molly. We were enthusiastic and happy about it. Then Bait tried to discourage us. He let us see that even he was subject to this—this folly as you call it.”

Miller whistled.

“A judge, eh! He ought to get enough that’s beyond the ken of man in his own courtroom. What did your judge say?”

“To begin with he told us the amazing history of the island and old Noyer, its original owner.”

“That at least has corroboration,” Miller said after Anderson had repeated the agent’s story.

“But,” Anderson continued, “he couldn’t define any real objections beyond the island’s isolation, its lack of convenient communication, and—of course—we take them so much for granted now—the snakes.”

“I’ve heard they’re the chief tenants,” Miller said. “They might have been a sound objection to your settling here.”

“But we hadn’t seen any that day, and we laughed, thinking the judge was trying to stop up some of his other arguments that wouldn’t hold water. And it’s true. Neither Molly nor I have seen a single snake, but they’re there somehow or other—always—in the background. It’s the feeling of the place—a feeling of long, slimy snakes, stealthily gliding in a circle from the shadows with unsheathed tongues. Lately we’ve feared they were growing daring—were getting ready to strike.”

He took out his handkerchief and passed it across his face.

“And these other arguments?” Miller asked. “The ones that the judge couldn’t define, that wouldn’t hold water?”

“Of course he couldn’t convince us with his talk of native and negro superstition while the sun glinted on the inlet and bathed the scene of his atrocious yams.”

“Atrocious, you say, yet you—”

“They must be,” Anderson said. “Sitting here, face to face with you, I can say it. They must be—Superstitions founded on Noyer’s revolting cruelty to his black merchandise, on his terrible fits of rage, on the Arab girl who was pampered and murdered in our house. Beyond question the island is avoided, and these stories, rather than the snakes, are responsible. The boy who brought your telegram from Sandport yesterday stumbled in at dusk, in tears. He refused to go back until daylight—lay awake half the night, crying out These beliefs made it necessary from the first for us to bring our own provisions from Sandport—to drive or walk the three miles to the river end of the island, signal for a boat, and row across.”

“Pleasant!” Miller said. “What do the servants think of it?”

“Servants! Haven’t had one in the house for two months, except Jake. Same way with Morgan. He’s managed to keep his man and a cook. That’s all.”

“Of course Jake would be faithful,” Miller said.

“Yes, he’s faithful, but with a painful struggle. Sometimes I feel I have no right to make him stay here, loathing and fearing the place as he does.”

“As you do, too, Andy,” Miller said softly. “Tell me what has made you doubt the judge’s yarns were atrocious. What kind of spooks am I to lay? What do you think you’ve seen?”

“We’ve seen nothing. If one only could see! It’s more subtle than that. It began the moment we moved down. We had found we couldn’t get a native servant near the place so we sent North for Mary and Ellen. You know how attached they were to Molly, how long she had had them.”

“Yes,” Miller replied, “but ignorant women—easily scared by stories.”

“They heard no stories,” Anderson said. “There was no chance. We met them at the station in Martinsburg and started immediately on Bait’s launch which he had loaned us. He had taken our impedimenta down before, so everything was ready for us. Mary and Ellen were enthusiastic when we sailed into the inlet. They had never been South before. They were excited by the experience, and completely satisfied. But when we entered the house its damp, chill air repelled us.”

“It would,” Miller said. “I’m told the entire island is a jungle. Such places don’t get the sun, and, remember, your house had stood in that jungle, uninhabited, for decades.”

“Yes,” Anderson agreed, “I ascribed a great deal to the climate at first, and maybe it’s that, but—after awhile one wonders.”

“First, then, the girls became frightened!”

“I don’t know—at first. We all fell silent We started fires in every room, but it seemed as though no amount of warmth could cut that charnel house atmosphere. And the day went so quickly! Black night had trapped us before we had time to realise it. I looked at Molly.

“‘If the judge could peep in on us now,’ I said, ‘the laughing wouldn’t be all on one side.’

“So we smiled at each other and were more cheerful after that until dinner time. Then Mary, without warning, burst into tears.”

“Homesick in a strange house,” Miller suggested.

“We couldn’t find out what it was. She didn’t seem to know herself. Ellen, of course, had to see it. Their enthusiasm and satisfaction were dead.

“They wouldn’t go upstairs until we did. We had given them each a room, but they said they preferred to share one. They hung back from saying good night to Molly. This all drove our minds from ourselves. We went to bed talking about it, wondering what the upshot would be.

“A wild scream awakened me in the middle of the night. In such a place it was doubly startling. Molly was already up. I threw on a bathrobe and we hurried to Mary and Ellen. Their light was burning. They lay in bed trembling and clinging to each other.

“They wouldn’t talk at first—wouldn’t or couldn’t. Finally we got it out of them. They had heard something dreadful happening in the next room. Some one, they swore, had been murdered there. They had heard everything, and Mary had screamed. Jim, I know it sounds absurd, but those girls who had never dreamed of the existence of old Noyer or his Arab woman, described in detail such sounds as might have cursed that house seventy or eighty years ago the night of that vicious and unpunished murder.

“We tried to laugh them out of their fancy. We entered the next room—a large, gloomy apartment on the front, probably—if Balt’s story is true—the room in which the woman died. Of course there was nothing there, but we couldn’t get Mary and Ellen to see for themselves. Nor would they stay upstairs. They dressed, and spent the rest of the night in the diningroom. And when we came down for breakfast they told us what we had feared,—they wouldn’t spend another night in that house. They were ready even to pay their own fare home. They hated to leave Molly, they said, but they couldn’t help themselves. They were afraid. It was then that I sent for Jake. If Jake didn’t owe me so much, if he wasn’t so persistent in his gratitude and loyalty, he would have followed them long ago.”

“Nightmares! Nightmares!” Miller scoffed.

“Jim,” Anderson said slowly, “since then Molly and I have had the same nightmares.”

Miller glanced up.

“Possibly imagination after the girls’ story.”

“No,” Anderson answered with conviction. “We have heard—we still hear—sounds that are not imagination—sounds that suggest a monstrous tragedy. And the worst of it is there is no normal explanation—none, none. Jim, I’ve tried everything to trace these sounds, to account for them. And they’re not all. Aside from this recurrent experience the house is—is terrifying. It isn’t too strong a word. You remember all that stuff we used to laugh at in the reports of The Psychical Research Society—footsteps in empty rooms, doors opening and closing without explanation? Well, Molly and I don’t laugh at it now—but we want to laugh. Jim, make us laugh again.”

“Of course. Of course, Andy.”

“And always at night,” Anderson went on, “there’s that gruesome feeling of an intangible and appalling presence. In the dark halls and rooms you know it is there, behind you, but when you turn there is nothing.”

He shuddered. He drank some water.

“In an indefinite way the atmosphere of that house is the atmosphere of the entire island. I can’t explain that to you. It’s something one feels but can’t analyse—something you must know and—and loathe yourself before you can understand. As far as I can fix it, it’s the feeling of the snakes, of which I spoke, and something besides. It holds a threat of death.”

“And the snakes?” Miller asked; “you say they haven’t troubled y—?”

“I said we had seen none.”

Anderson paused.

“But,” he went on after a moment, “the other day we found Molly’s big Persian cat in the thicket between the shore and the old slave quarters. It had been struck by a rattlesnake.”

“Too inquisitive cat!” Miller said. “You know snakes don’t care about having their habits closely questioned by other animals.”

Anderson shook his head.

“If you had lived here the last two months as we have, you might feel as we do about it—that it’s a sort of warning. You know I said they were growing daring.”

“Andy! Andy!” Miller cried. “This won’t do.”

“That’s what Morgan’s always saying,” Anderson answered, “but in his quiet way he’s on tenterhooks himself. He’s resisting the impulse to go, too.”

“Has he a wife?” Miller asked.

“A daughter,” Anderson said slowly.

“Any company for Molly?”

Anderson turned away. He seemed reluctant to reply.

“No,” he said finally, “not even for her father. Jim, I wish you’d try to judge that girl for yourself—if you can, if you see her. You can’t tell about her. She’s queer, elusive, unnatural. She troubles Morgan. Of course it’s a subject we can’t discuss very well.”

“Off her head?”

“Judge her for yourself, Jim, if you can. Frankly she’s beyond me.”

“Another puzzle! And that’s the entire population!”

“Morgan’s two brothers from the North have visited him once or twice. They made it almost jolly. But they didn’t stay long. Don’t blame them.”

“And that’s all!”

“On the island proper. There’s that native of whom I spoke. One shrinks from him instinctively. He’s been hanging around ever since we’ve been here, living in a flat-bottomed oyster boat, anchored near the shore. At night I’ve thought I’ve seen him crawling silently around the inlet in his filthy old tub.”

“At least he doesn’t seem superstitious.” Miller put in drily.

“Rather a figure to foster superstition. He seems to symbolise the whole thing.”

“That’s a curious fancy. What has he to say for himself? You’ve been aboard his boat of course.”

“Scarcely. Morgan tried that once out of bravado. He found no one there—no sign of life. I’ve attempted time after time to get a word with the man. I’ve hailed him from the shore. But he pays no attention—either isn’t to be seen at all, or else stands on his deck, gaunt and lean and hairy, etched against the sunset. You look at him until you hate him, until you fear him.”

“I can try my own hand there,” Miller said. “Then that’s the total of your neighbours?”

“There’s a colony of oystermen working the marsh banks to the north of the island. They live in thickets. They have the appearance of savages. Bait said there’s a queer secret organisation among them.”

Miller smoked in silence for some moments, while Anderson watched him with an air of suspense. Miller lowered his cigar and leaned forward.

“This girl, Andy?”

“It’s hard to say anything more definite about her, and, if you stay, I’d rather you followed my wishes there. Judge her for yourself, Jim. And—and are you going to stay and help us back to mental health?”

“What do you think?” Miller asked a little impatiently. “You mustn’t grow too fanciful.”

“If’s asking a great deal,” Anderson said, “because, sane and strong-willed as you are, Jim, it isn’t impossible you should feel the taint yourself.”

“I’m not afraid of that,” Miller laughed. “I’ll stay, but not in your house at first. I’ll live on the boat here in the inlet where I can keep my eye on that fisherman of yours and get a broad view of the whole island and its mystery. I’ll hold myself a little aloof. You see it would be perfectly natural for you to row out and call on a stranger anchoring here and invading your loneliness; natural for you to bring Molly, say tomorrow; natural for me to return your call, and eventually to visit you at the coquina house over night and experience its dreadful thrills. That’s the way we’ll let it stand, if you please, for the present. I’m a total stranger.”

“Do as you think best,” Anderson agreed gratefully.

“Then that’s settled,” Miller said. “Now how about dinner? You’ll stay?”

Anderson arose.

“No, Molly and Jake are waiting. I know they’re worried, Jim. They won’t have any peace until I’m safely back. These woods—we don’t like them even by day.”

Miller smiled.

“I’ll do my best to purify them of everything but snakes. I can’t promise about the snakes.”

As he led the way up the ladder he heard Tony open the sliding door. Glancing back, he saw the native, fear in his face, waiting to follow.

“There is something here that gets the natives,” he whispered to Anderson. “Go home now and sleep, and tell Molly to sleep. We’ll straighten things out in no time.”

“You’ll do it, if it can be done,” Anderson said. “If it can be done—”

He grasped the painter and drew his boat forward against the resisting tide. Miller held the line while Anderson stepped in.

Anderson clearly shrank from the short journey back to the coquina house. A sense of discomfort swept Miller. He felt the necessity of strengthening his friend with something reassuring, with something even more definite than reassurance.

“And, Andy,” he said, leaning over the rail. “if anything comes up—if you need me at any moment, send Jake, or, if there isn’t a chance for that, call from the shore or fire a gun three times. I should hear you.”

“Thanks, Jim. I’ll remember,” Anderson answered.

He pushed his boat from the side of the Dart. The tide caught it and drew it into the black shadows even before he had seated himself and arranged the oars.

Miller remained leaning over the rail, straining his eyes to find the vanished boat. After a moment he tried to penetrate the darkness for a light, for some sign of that other boat, the boat of the fisherman. He could make out nothing. Yet it must lie somewhere over there, harbouring that grim, provocative figure to which Anderson attached such unnatural importance.

As he leaned there he felt troubled, uncertain. It had been a shock to see a man so, exceptionally sane as Anderson suddenly deprived of his healthy outlook on life and death, and struggling in this desperate fashion to regain it.

He told himself he had no slightest fear of the island or its lonely mysteries. That might after all be a satisfactory explanation:—the loneliness, the climate, the clinging mass of native superstition, the brooding over the servants’ fancies, the consequent growth of sleeplessness, and, finally, when nerves were raw, this first reminder of the snakes. It was enough to work on the strongest minds.

Miller smiled at Anderson’s fear that he might become a victim too. Yet the impression of unhealth the place had carried to him and which he had fought down before Anderson, had returned. He leaned there wondering.

He swung around at a sharp noise. Tony was at the anchor chain again.

“Afraid we’ll drag?”

The native pointed to the sky.

Only a few stars gleamed momentarily as heavy clouds scudded southward. For the first time Miller felt the stinging quality of the wind.

“It’ll blow hard,” he said. “What a night! I’m going below. I’ll be hungry by the time you have dinner ready.”

He went down the companionway. The other followed him so closely he could feel his warm breath on the back of his neck.

Tony went in the kitchen and started to get dinner. Miller stretched himself on a locker. He arranged the cushions luxuriously behind his head. He took from the shelf a book which he had found fascinating only last night. He lighted his pipe. He tried to fancy himself supremely comfortable and cosy.

Tony came in after a few moments and commenced to set the table. Miller blew great clouds of smoke ceilingward.

“Not so bad down here, Tony!” he said. “Confess, it couldn’t look a bit different if we were tied up at the dock in Martinsburg. Well?”

He lowered his book. He glanced up. The pallor that had invaded the native’s face at the command to anchor in Captain’s Inlet had not retreated. The fear, too, that had burned in his eyes then showed no abatement. It flashed over Miller that there was a resemblance—not physical, but all the more disturbing because it wasn’t—between the Anderson who had just come to him with his appeal and the Tony who recently had bent to his command and traversed the Snake. He found himself questioning if a mirror would not have shown an alteration in his own countenance. The thought troubled him. To drive it out he looked around—at the tapestry cushions, at the familiar ivory panelling, at the four French prints. He had lied to Tony. It was not the same. It did not look the same. It did not feel the same.

He reached up and opened the porthole to knock the ashes from his pipe. A vicious gust of wind tore the brass frame from his hand and entered the cabin. The lamp flickered. Beaching over to regain the frame, Miller’s eye caught Tony. He had dropped his work. He leaned heavily against the table, his mouth half open, his eyes fixed on the open port.

Quickly Miller realised that the silent native wanted to talk, wanted to tell him something, strained to go back, doubtless, to those unhealthy rumours whose beginnings he had blurted out at the entrance of the Snake.

Miller’s irritation flamed into anger. Decidedly, between Anderson and this superstitious fellow, his own poise would be threatened. Ridiculous! He could not be intimidated by the atmosphere of any place, however lonely, however tarnished by creeping lies. He slammed the frame shut and screwed it tight. He swung on Tony.

“What are you staring at now? Get hold of yourself. Make up your mind to one thing; you’ll see no ghosts on Captain’s Island while you’re with me. Hurry dinner.”

It was the first time he had used that tone with the man. He wondered at it, but Tony returned to the kitchen, shrugging his shoulders. Miller, however, noticed that a rule was broken. The kitchen door was left wide.

After dinner he went back to the book which he had thought fascinating last night. Now its cleverness had dwindled. It failed to hold him. Tony, whose invariable custom it had been to retire early to his bunk in the kitchen, sat wide-eyed in the doorway. Several times Miller was on the point of commanding him to close the door. In the end he thought better of it. These irritable impulses were foreign to’ his personality. They might be looked upon as a manifestation of the place against which he should guard. So when he went to bed, after keeping up his farce of reading for half an hour longer, he tried to throw himself into an attitude of amused comprehension.

“If it will make you feel any better, Tony, I’ll leave my door open a crack. Then you won’t have all the spooks to yourself.”

A sigh answered him. Tony’s light went out. The boat was in darkness.

Miller tried to sleep. But, in spite of the season and the closed portholes, a chill, damp air invaded his stateroom. The wind had increased to a gale. It beat furiously against the boat, which rocked in the uneven gusts. The distant pounding of the breakers brought a mournful undertone across the dunes. The stealthy passage of the tide suggested the flight of such creatures as Miller knew must live and torture in Tony’s superstitious imagination.