Читать книгу Wadsworth Camp Mysteries - Charles Wadsworth Camp - Страница 23

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He lay apparently for a long time while his memory stirred and his mind reluctantly resumed its functions.

He recalled the beginning of the night at the coquina house, the sounds and feelings that had disturbed him there, the cry from outside, the picture of the silent fisherman, erect against the dunes, the warning of the girl, the blue light, her terror, his journey through the woods, his determination to seek a clue in the ruins.

Where was he now? He lay in utter darkness. The rushing of the wind was as fierce as ever.

Then, gently at first, he heard a sound from the black cloak of the night—the sound he had heard in Anderson’s bedroom, the sound that had shared so often in the island’s manifestations. It was not far away—only six or seven feet, he thought—and straight ahead. After a moment the rattle came again. This time it was answered from the rear. It was taken up on either side. It I’ose. It died away. Its volume grew again. An acrid, loathsome odour reached his nostrils. He lay within a circle of snakes; and, although from the lack of pressure he knew he was not bound, he was powerless to move.

He choked back the cry that tore at his throat. His mind was clearer now. He forced it to work logically. If he was not bound why was it impossible for him to move? He recalled the white light. An explanation of his helplessness ran hotly to his brain. Meantime the revolting prophecy of the rattling continued. While he fancied the deadly circle was closing, he set his will to work. He succeeded in twitching the fingers of one hand. Actually it was not much more than a minute after his return to consciousness when he drew his knees up and raised himself to a sitting posture.

He patted the ground at his side. It was hard like packed earth. Certainly he was not in the forest. Then—?”

Fighting the racking pains that ran through his head and body, he reached in his pocket for his revolver and his match box. The revolver was gone. He had been carrying it when the white light had flashed. Of course it had fallen from his hand. The match box, however, was there. He took out a match and scraped it. In answer to the slight noise the rattling rose excitedly.

The match blinded him at first, but before it was half burned out his eyes accustomed themselves to its light. He glanced quickly around. He saw no snakes.

He was in the centre of a small, bare room whose floor, as he had thought, was of packed earth. The flame played on rough grey walls. It failed to disclose the top of a peaked roof. He noticed a line of brushwood, perhaps two feet high, which ran around all four walls. Unquestionably the snakes lurked behind that screen. Why did they not come out to converge on him? When would they come out?

Just before the match expired he saw a closed oak door in the wall to his left.

He knew now that he was in one of the slave quarters which he had started to explore—probably in one of those which yesterday he had noticed had been repaired. But how had he come there? And why was he left surrounded by snakes which did not attack? Now that he felt himself placed at the heart of the mystery he could not stop to reason. His danger was too apparent. He must reach the oak door. He must escape from the circle.

With painful effort he raised himself to his knees. He was by no means sure he could stand upright, yet he must try. He must get to the door.

He paused on his knees. Something moved at the door. It must have been opened a little, for a streak of yellow light cut across the left hand wall. He waited, breathing heavily. It was as though his return to consciousness and his determination to escape had been known, and that this sickly light was a warning that the door was watched, that escape was impossible.

The streak grew. It reached the further wall. The door was thrown wide. Framed on the threshold; Miller saw the great figure of the fisherman.

For a moment he stood there, staring at Miller in the light of the lantern he held. His eyes had the same fixed look Miller had remarked before. His lips were pressed tightly together.

So Anderson’s instinct had been right! The fisherman was at the bottom of it. Probably he had done for Jake. But Tony! Tony had seen no one.

Miller was unwilling to believe. The absence of motive, the wanton cruelty, these elaborate preparations! A mad thought came to him. Could there be any connection between this figure and the giant slaver, long since dead? He spoke with difficulty.

“What—does all this mean? Will you help me out of here?”

The fisherman’s stare did not waver.

“These snakes!” Miller whispered.

The fisherman’s face showed no change. It was such a face as one might fancy beneath the mask of an executioner.

Miller struggled to his feet. He swayed. He attempted to step forward.

Now the fisherman moved. He whipped a cord from his pocket and threw his great bulk towards Miller.

Miller raised his fists. He tried to hold the figure off, but his strength was nothing against this giant. He went to the floor. A knee was on his chest. Like a child he was rolled from side to side while the cord was fastened around his arms and legs.

“What are you going to do?” Miller gasped.

The fisherman arose and walked to the wall. He kicked a portion of the brushwood away, disclosing a square pine box. He turned to the corner. He lifted a long, slender pole which stood there. Miller saw that a cord ran down the pole and made a loop at the lower end.

The fisherman returned to the box, and, using the end of the pole, raised the lid. An angry rattling came from the box. The fisherman thrust the pole inside.

“What are you going to do?” Miller repeated.

The fisherman did not turn. Carefully, systematically he moved the end of the pole with the loop backwards and forwards in the box. One hand clutched the cord near the top of the pole, after a moment drew it tight, then slowly raised the pole until the end with the loop was above the edge of the box.

The flat head of a snake was caught in the loop. Its bead-like eyes gleamed in the lantern light. They found Miller’s eyes and rested there. The forked tongue darted in and out of the revolting and venomous mouth.

Miller strained at his bonds. He could not move his hands or his feet the fraction of an inch.

“Let me up. What are you going to do?” he asked with dry lips.

The fisherman continued to raise the pole until the snake’s circular, shining body curled and flapped about his legs. Miller watched, fascinated. While the body thrashed, the head, caught in the loop, remained still. The evil eyes did not leave his.

The fisherman turned and stepped towards Miller. He lowered the pole until the snake’s body was beating the floor with soft, abhorrent strokes until the head almost rested on the packed earth.

With a deliberate slowness the fisherman brought the snake closer to Miller. It tried to get its head free to coil. When this sly, snail-like march was arrested close to Miller’s bound and helpless body the fisherman would slip the loop and spring back. Then the snake would coil. In its anger it would strike at what was nearest.

Inch by inch this slow death, whose every step he could foresee, approached. The tiny eyes held him. It seemed impossible that the reasonless fury behind them could project to him the supreme unconsciousness. He shuddered.

“Man! You can’t do this!”

He wet his lips.

“Or—then—Faster! Faster!”

For the first time the mask-like face of the fisherman altered. The tight lips parted. They stretched in a distorted smile. He took another step forward. The snake was very near.

The evil of the smile aroused Miller. He forced his eyes from the snake’s. The girl, whom he would never see again if this torturing execution was carried out, flashed through his mind. He saw her as she had been that first morning on the beach, in her white robe, bent to the wind, gazing out to sea. He remembered her just now in the coquina house, hiding her bleeding wrists, crying out that they must not let him go. She had known then that he would risk death. Did she know it would come to him here and in this fashion? Hope was born. He could not analyse her attitude, her refusal to tell what she knew of these horrors of the island, of her own connection with them; but she could not, after that warning, after that abandonment on the steps, let him end like this. She must have conquered whatever forces had held her from speaking. She must have indicated to Anderson, Tony, and Molly what he faced. If she had done that, those friends, he knew, would not take the road to the river and the boat And the fisherman probably did not guess that she had been to the coquina house. So he smiled back, and he cried out at the top of his lungs :

“Andy! Tony!”

If they came even after the snake had struck there might be time for a tourniquet, for some antidote. At least he would have a chance.

The travesty of a smile left the fisherman’s face. He paused. He glanced towards the half open door. Miller looked, too, expectantly, and he saw Morgan run in. There was no humour in the genial little man’s face now. He stopped dead, and drew back. His lips twitched nervously.

“Morgan!” Miller cried.

Morgan spoke with a distinct effort There was a note of helplessness in his voice.

“You, Miller, trapped! My heavens! How did this happen?”

“Don’t ask questions,” Miller said. “Thank the Lord you’re here. Get me up. Get me away from that snake.”

Morgan stared at him. The fisherman kept his eyes on the little man. At last Morgan pressed his hands together then spread them in a wide gesture.

“I can do nothing, Miller. This is pretty tough.”

“What do you mean?” Miller cried.

Morgan hung his head.

“Just that. I’m helpless to save you. If you’d only come to spend the night with me as I asked! You’d be safe in bed now.”

“You mean—” Miller gasped. “It’s impossible!”

“I can’t tell you what I mean,” Morgan answered.

“Tell me,” Miller begged.

Morgan turned away.

“No—not even to dead men.”

The fisherman still watched. At last Morgan made a quick gesture. The fisherman’s fingers twitched at the cord which imprisoned the snake’s head. Then his hand grew rigid.

“Better not!”

Morgan and the fisherman swung around at the quiet command which Miller had hoped for, had almost felt sure would come.

“Andy,” he said with a trembling laugh, “Don’t shout ‘hands up’ until you’ve put a charge of shot in that snake.”

Anderson stepped inside.

“Cover them, Tony,” he said.

Tony entered, raising his revolver. Anderson lowered his shot-gun and fired.

Miller saw a piece of flaming wadding from the shell bury itself in the brushwood, but his relief at watching the snake’s body torn by the shot drove everything else for the moment from his mind.

The fisherman tossed the pole and the shattered snake behind him. He turned as though for guidance to Morgan; but Morgan, his face twisted again, faced the revolver with which Tony threatened him.

“Don’t lose sight of that fisherman, Andy,” Miller said. “Keep an eye on him while you cut this rope.”

Anderson stooped and cut the cord. He helped Miller to his feet.

“Morgan?” Anderson said. “What does this mean?”

“He’s been asking that.” Morgan answered. “Well, find out if you can. I can’t tell you.”

“I’ve found out one thing—how Jake died. It’s murder, Morgan.”

“You try to connect me with that!”

“I’ll try. And this attempt—”

“Fortunately he wasn’t hurt,” Morgan answered.

“My story,” Miller said, “and the evidence of these snakes, collected here, will hurt!”

“Evidence! There goes that evidence.”

He pointed to the brushwood in the corner where the flaming wadding from Anderson’s gun had fallen. The brushwood was beginning to blaze. Miller tried to stamp it out, but the twigs were like tinder. They crackled in the fire that quickly swept the length of the wall. The rattling of the snakes, just now menacing, arose in a staccato appeal. In a moment the fire would be at the door.

“Take these two out and keep them covered,” Miller said. “Don’t let them get away. We’ll reach the bottom of this business now,”

He followed the others into the gale-swept semicircle. The fire was through the doorway almost at his heels. It licked its way in the dry grass along the wall towards the opening between the quarters. There the wind would catch it finally and deliver to its hungry tongues the evil piece of woods.

As the flames rose the trees of the avenue sprang into gargantuan, twisted motion. Through their straining branches the rear of the plantation house gleamed white. The flames also showed Miller the backs of Molly and the girl, seated on a fallen log at the side of the avenue. The girl’s head was hidden on Molly’s shoulder. He looked away. The difficulty of the situation stifled him. Her father involved in this brutal scandal! Undoubtedly she had saved his life, yet what was her own share?

He swung on Morgan angrily.

“Answer my questions. Explain this business.”

“I can explain nothing,” Morgan answered. “As far as I am concerned there’s nothing to explain beyond the fact that I found you in the hands of that giant and told you the obvious thing that I couldn’t handle him and get you away. What do I know 1 These natives I Their purposes are beyond me. You people seem determined to incriminate me somehow or other. That’s nonsense. Let’s be sensible and go to the house and have a drink while Rome burns.”

Miller grasped Morgan’s arm. He shook it savagely.

“You say I’m too determined. Understand, I’m determined to find out what it is you won’t tell even to dead men—why you’ve played this Judas part, why you’ve put the Andersons on the rack, why you killed Jake, why you tried to kill Tony and me. And I’ll find out. There isn’t a rat-hole in that house of yours I won’t search for a reason. And your daughter! Look at her sitting there.”

Morgan turned wildly.

“My daughter!”

“She warned me,” Miller said. “She saved my life. Even if your fisherman is a sphinx, do you think she’ll keep silent now?”

Morgan’s jaw dropped. An animal-like cry left his mouth. As Tony, momentarily surprised, lowered his revolver, Morgan ran to the corner of the building, sprang across the flames now blazing there, and leaped into the tangled undergrowth.

Tony raised his arm. He aimed at the broad back. Miller struck the gun up.

“No, Tony. It isn’t necessary.”

For as Morgan had jumped, the wind had seized the flames and had leaped shrieking with them into the forest after his retreating figure. The thicket crackled like a scattered skirmish line. The fire licked along the trunks to the waving tree tops. The glare became blinding.

Miller turned gravely to Anderson.

“That thicket will hold him back like a thousand hands. Perhaps it’s better than he deserved. You and Tony take that tongue-tied fellow to the plantation house. I’ll bring Molly and th—the girl.”

He walked slowly, reluctantly to the fallen log where the two sat with their backs still turned. He touched the girl’s bowed head. He spoke gently :

“Your—your father got away.”

Her head went a little lower. He had to stoop to catch her answer.

“He is not my father.”

She said no more. He did not have the heart to question her then.