Читать книгу Girl Meets Body - Jack Iams - Страница 7

Chapter Five

Banshee Castle

It was after three when they finally set out for Merry Point. In the mists that lay over the Jersey flats as they emerged from the Holland Tunnel, there hung already a desolate sense of approaching nightfall. Oncoming cars mostly had their lights on, yellow blobs bursting through the grayness, their wheels whirring shrilly on smooth wetness as they passed. Traffic moved swiftly, weaving, jockeying for advantage at stop signals, as though everyone wanted to get the journey over with, to get out of the cold fog and into warmth and cheer.

“Reminds me of Liverpool,” shivered Sybil.

“I have a feeling,” said Tim, “that Liverpool will seem like the Riviera to you when we get to Merry Point.”

When they left the main highway and swung toward the coast, the sense of desolation deepened with the fading afternoon. Traffic thinned out, a relief at first, then dwindled to the point of loneliness. Roadside stands were shuttered, dine-and-dance places stood dark and gaunt. Signs advertising boating, bathing, and bungalows rattled mockingly in the wind. Occasionally they passed a shabby bar-and-grill or hamburger joint with its neon lights lit, but such forlorn bravado merely emphasized the general abandonment.

Even these relics of quasi civilization petered out as they pushed south into the pine belt. Then the road ran somberly straight through endless tracts of pine trees, murmuring in their own funereal twilight. Mile after mile, the dark green wall rustled past.

Once a lithe, brown shape bounded across the road in front of them, and Tim said, “Must remind you of the family deer park.”

“Was that really a deer?” asked Sybil.

“Sure.”

“Well,” said Sybil, “if my family ever had a deer park like this, I’m glad they didn’t tell me about it.”

Suddenly the glow of lights appeared in the distance and, almost before they knew it, they were coming into what, according to the map, must be the town with the railroad station five miles from Merry Point. Bankville, it was called, and it was a relief to enter its bright main street after the brooding woodland. Behind the lines of parked cars, shop windows were cheerful, bulbs glittered around the marquee of a movie house, potted shrubs lent wistful elegance to a little red-brick hotel.

“I suppose this’ll be our shopping and whoopee center,” said Tim.

“We just passed a likely-looking pub,” said Sybil. “I might add, why?”

“Because we probably wouldn’t leave it,” said Tim.

“Who wants to leave it?” asked Sybil.

“Get thee behind me,” said Tim. But, having put the pub and the lights of Bankville behind him, he had to admit to himself that a spot of Dutch courage might have helped matters. Again the walls of pine closed in, fragrant and oppressive. It was decidedly dark by now, and the road that branched off to Merry Point was narrow and elusive in the mists swirling in front of the headlights. Among the trees, dark and shiny patches of water began to appear. Then, abruptly, the woodland ended, and the harsh, salt smell of marsh and sea rushed over them.

They emerged onto a flatland of stunted trees and waving reeds, palely illumined by a white and mist-hung moon just rising from a black expanse that had to be the ocean. On the sandspit that rose slightly from the marshland, rows of houses were dimly silhouetted like a village of cardboard.

“That must be it,” said Tim.

“Darling,” said Sybil, “let’s go right straight back to that pub.”

“And let down your Mr. Magruder?”

“I’m sure Mr. Magruder had nothing to do with sending us to a place like this. This is the work of leprechauns.”

“I only hope a good, reliable leprechaun has turned on the light and heat,” said Tim.

“You mean we’re going through with it?”

“Don’t you want to?”

“No,” said Sybil, “but I suppose we have to. I’ve got the gollywobbles. Don’t mind me.”

They had reached the outskirts of the community, whose pattern lay as stark as a wintry tree’s in the moonlight. The road which had brought them across the marshland became the main street, parallel with the coast, lined with shuttered buildings, some of which appeared to be shops, tearooms, and such, while nearer the ocean, apparently fronting on the beach, rose the dark shapes of deserted houses. They were houses of an old-fashioned stateliness, with rambling porches crouched in shadows, with cupolas and turrets jutting weirdly against the pale sky.

“Try to imagine striped awnings,” said Tim, “and children running around with buckets and shovels. That’ll cheer you up.”

“The only child I can imagine hereabouts,” said Sybil, “is the one who to the dark tower came. Child Whosit.”

“Child Roland,” said Tim. “Next thing is to figure out which of these dark towers is ours.”

“Ours, all ours,” murmured Sybil. “How blissful that would sound—to a couple of banshees.”

“I wish you’d keep those gollywobbles to yourself,” said Tim. “They’re catching.” He slowed the car almost to a halt. “Let’s see now. The war-bride lady said to keep straight through the town till we come to a bridge across an inlet. First turn to the left beyond the bridge is us. Sounds simple enough.”

“Too simple. You must have it wrong.”

“We’ll soon see.” He sent the car forward through the empty street, past half a mile or so of silent houses. The pounding of the sea was loud in their ears. So, for that matter, was their breathing. A white, wooden bridge loomed out of the mist, crossing what seemed a sandy creek but which, seaward from the bridge, widened between gently rising bluffs until it met the phosphorescent surf that licked at the sandbar guarding its mouth.

On the two tips of land above the sandbar’s foam, there sat like glowering twin fortresses two big and barnlike houses of the same general architecture as those they had passed. On the porch of the one on the far side of the inlet a yellow lamp was burning.

“I guess that’s the place,” said Tim. “And I’d judge from the light that the leprechaun’s been there.”

“Look,” said Sybil. “Isn’t that a light in the other house, too?”

Tim peered through the car window, squinting. “It might be reflection,” he said.

“Looks like two lighted windows to me,” said Sybil. “Funny. Mrs. War Bride gave me the impression the place was deserted.”

“How about those aborigines you mentioned?”

“Natives? Seems unlikely in a house of that sort. Anyway, it’s nothing to worry about.”

The car rattled across the loose planks of the bridge. Some fifty yards beyond, between two stone posts, a sandy drive curved away through rolling dunes toward the bluff.

“Here we are,” said Tim and swung the car into it. A quarter of a mile ahead of them, the big roof and chimneys of the house were barely visible above the dunes, dark-patched with catbriars and bayberry among the rippling beach grass.

“Darling,” said Sybil suddenly, “I’m scared. I feel the way I did the night the buzz bomb missed us.”

Tim reached for her hand. “If it turns out as well as that night did,” he said, “I’ll have no complaints.”

The car crunched to a stop under an antique porte-cochere spreading from the porch whose ornate railings and columns curled around the brown shingled walls of the house. The light they had seen came from an old lamp dangling on an iron chain in front of the entrance.

Below the house, the dunes dropped to a strip of beach that lay silvery in the misty light. A little way along, a hundred yards perhaps from where they sat, the dim outline of a pier extended a good distance into the dark water that churned itself into angry white around the pilings. Still farther along, there thrust itself above the dunes a huge and fantastic openwork structure that looked like some gigantic toy left to rust on the sands. It took Tim several uneasy seconds to realize that it was a Ferris wheel.

From somewhere in the direction of the pier came a scream.

“What’s that?” cried Sybil and seized Tim’s arm.

It came again, raucous and shrill. A moment later, a great bird rose from the dunes and sailed with heavy grace across the beach.

“Sea gull,” said Tim.

“More like a vulture,” said Sybil.

“A nice, cheerful thought with which to enter our connubial bower,” said Tim. “Shall I carry you across the threshold?”

“Maybe you’d better. My knees are shaking.”

“I’m willing to try,” said Tim. He jumped out of the car, went round to the other side, and lifted her from the seat.

“I’m a pretty big girl,” said Sybil.

“Light as a feather,” said Tim. “A vulture feather.”

He carried her up the wooden steps to the porch, trying not to wheeze audibly. At the front door, embedded in a border of stained glass, he paused. “Look,” he said. “There’s a note pinned to it.”

“I know just what it says,” murmured Sybil. “It says, Don’t enter this house if yon value your life. And underneath is a crudely drawn skull.”

“At least, it’s in pencil and not in blood,” said Tim. He set Sybil on her feet and reached for the bit of paper with an assurance he didn’t quite feel. He read the message aloud:

“Mr. Ludlow. I been over today and got the burner going and the water and lights turned on. Also brung up some wood for the fireplace there is plenty more in the cellar. Left you some beer and cans of beans and stuff in the icebox in case you need same. Key is under the mat. Hope everything is satisfactory. Yours truly, Elias Whittlebait.”

Sybil leaned against Tim and began to laugh. “Darling, I’m such a fool,” she gasped. “I really thought there’d be a crudely drawn skull.”

Tim put his arm around her and kissed her. Then he found the key under the mat, opened the door, and carried Sybil into the house. The first thing of which they were conscious was a grateful and pervading warmth. Tim kissed Sybil again, put her down, and felt for the light switch. They found themselves standing in a broad hallway from which rose a majestic, if slightly sagging, staircase. The woodwork was dark and there was a rather frightening hatstand with intricately carved serpents twining around a long mirror.

To their right, through green portieres, a doorway opened into a big and comfortable-looking living-room. It was papered in a deep yellow that bore signs of a long-faded pattern. Green curtains hung at its many windows. The furniture was a hodgepodge of solid old pieces and flimsy summery items. There were a couple of black leather easy chairs, a black leather davenport, and an oak table with a green glass-shaded lamp on it. There were also a number of wicker chairs and a wicker settee, all heaped with cushions that once must have been bright but were now a genteel neutral.

The cheeriest feature of the room was a great fireplace of ruddy brick with a log fire neatly laid. Above it hung an overcast seascape in oil, framed in gilt, and on the opposite wall a stuffed tarpon was mounted on a board with printed data regarding its demise, also in gilt.

Beyond the living-room, through French doors, was a library, considerably smaller and lined with glass-doored bookcases. It contained a roll-top desk.

Across the hallway was the dining-room with big curtained windows and paintings of dead fish and rabbits and ducks that looked down on a heavy oval table and chairs of oak.

“Darling,” said Sybil, looking around her, “I have been a goose. It’s going to be lovely. I knew Mr. Magruder would take care of us.”

“Mr. Magruder and his leprechauns,” said Tim. “I must admit it’s a darned sight better than anything I expected. Shall we explore upstairs?”

“I’d like to explore a bathroom,” said Sybil. She glanced toward the staircase, from the head of which came the faint sound of windows rattling in the wind. “Wonder if there’s one on this floor,” she added with a sheepish grin. “I’m not quite ready to go poking upstairs.”

Tim tried a door under the staircase. “Here’s a lavatory,” he said. “I’ll be bringing in the bags.”

It took him several trips to bring in all of Sybil’s trim airplane luggage and his own collection of old suitcases and duffel bags, which he piled in the hallway for the time being. Sybil emerged from the lavatory and said, “Damn. The w.c. doesn’t flush.”

“We’ll put the leprechaun on it tomorrow,” said Tim.

“How would that help?”

“I mean on the job of fixing it.”

“Oh,” said Sybil. “I wondered. What was his name again?”

“Elias Whittlebait.”

“Lovely name. Must be a lovely little man. And how about a lovely little dry martini before we unpack?”

“Fine. Let’s see, one of these duffel bags has the drinkables in it.”

He found the right bag, by ear, and carried it into the kitchen. Sybil, following, gave a little cry of womanly pleasure at its shiny whiteness. “What beautiful things I’ll cook for you here,” she exclaimed. “Beginning with the martinis. You can be lighting the fire while I mix ’em.”

Tim went back to the living-room and knelt in front of the fireplace. He touched a match to the wadded paper under the logs and watched with enjoyment as tiny shoots of flame burst upward, gathering momentum until the fireplace was full of crackling light.

“Tim!” He heard Sybil’s voice across the hall, sharp and taut. “Tim!”

He turned on his haunches to see her coming toward him from the dining-room. Her face was white.

“There’s someone moving around on the porch,” she said.

“Must be the wind.”

“No,” said Sybil. “Look!” She pointed toward the dining-room window. Unmistakably, against its dark pane, was pressed a man’s face.

“Probably Elias Whittlebait having a look around,” said Tim. Even to him, the words sounded hollow.

“Why wouldn’t he come to the front door?”

“Don’t know. I’ll soon find out, though.” He started toward the door.

“Wait,” said Sybil. “Take this.” She picked up the poker from its rack by the fireplace and thrust it at him.

“What would I do with that?” asked Tim.

“I don’t know,” said Sybil, “but it’ll make me feel better.”

“All right,” said Tim, trying to smile at her. He took the poker and went to the front door. The wind thudded against it as he turned the knob, as if it had been wailing for a long time to get in. The comfortable solidity of the house dissolved suddenly into the eerie loneliness that had hung over it when they arrived. Tim gripped the poker and pushed the door open.

“Who’s there?” he called.

For a moment, there was only the rush of the wind and the roar of the surf. Then a thickset figure emerged from the shadows along the porch and, in the thin glow of the lamp overhead, Tim saw a pistol pointed at him.