Sinister Island by Charles Wadsworth Camp (desktop ebook reader txt) đź“•
"Lots of silly things there's no accounting for," the agent replied. "And you can't realise the reputation the island's got around this part of the country. And, see here! Don't you be putting me down as foolish too. I've told you what they say. I don't know anything about spooks--never saw one. All I do claim is, there's a kind of a spell on Captain's Island that reaches out for you and--and sort of scares you. That's all I say--a sort of spell you want to get away from. Maybe you're right and it's just the climate, and that jungle, and the loneliness."
"And I," Miller said, "have been picturing it as a popular winter resort."
"You'll have to ask the snakes and the spooks about that," the agent laughed.
He turned to an entering customer.
Miller went back to the Dart, telling himself that the problem of Anderson's note was as undecipherable as ever. He would have to wait for an explanation until he had seen Anderson that night. Therefore he was all th
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Slipping out of bed, he tiptoed to the door. As he had agreed with Molly he had left it open only a crack. Now it stood wide. The wind, he argued, might be responsible. Yet he hurriedly pushed it to. He felt a physical aversion for the black void of the hall where the footsteps strayed.
“Andy!” he said under his breath. “Tony!”
No one answered. The house was completely silent now except for the rattling of the casements.
He returned to the bed, arguing that the footsteps had been imagination or some trickery of the wind, but he could not convince himself.
Little by little, as though the footsteps had started the train, his mind began to play with the thought of a woman’s violent death in this room. He knew practically nothing beyond the bare fact. After pampering her, Anderson and the agent had said, Noyer had killed her, had cut her throat; and that had almost certainly happened in this room, perhaps, in this bed, with the arabesques writhing in the candle-light.
He pictured the lawless slaver coming swiftly down that path through the dangerous forest; tramping up the stairs; furiously bursting through that door, which he had just now found mysteriously open; leaning over the bed; killing there that which in his uncouth way he had loved. Had she struggled in the bed? Had she had time to cry out before the great hands had tortured her throat and the knife had flashed?
The theory that the essence of tragedy lingers at the place of its making had never impressed Miller. He did not yield to it now. Yet in spite of his mental struggles, these fancies, these questions persisted. Even the thought of the girl was powerless to guide his imagination to solider ground, although he realised that his future in relation to hers depended on his conquest of a subtle force to which his present experience might, indeed, be traced. He found himself listening for the footsteps again. Were they what Molly awaited when she held her head on one side in an attitude of strained expectancy?
The footsteps did not return, but soon another sound stole into his consciousness—a slow, even, heavy dripping. This time there was no doubt. The sound was in his room, within hand’s reach, close to the head of the bed, as though—
He shuddered. He sat upright. The quick motion set the arabesques writhing behind his eyelids. He brushed his hand across his face. He made an effort to regain his sense of proportion. He would find out what that sound was. No matter how much courage it took to reach for his slippers beneath the bed in the vicinity of that sodden, suggestive dripping, he would get up. He would light the candles.
His unwilling fingers found the slippers. He stepped to the floor. He pushed through the inky blackness to the bureau.
The dripping sound followed him. He paused, the match in his hand, wondering if Noyer had heard something like that—had heard and fled from his lifeless, disfigured victim.
Then what he had half expected rang through the echoing house—the cry of a woman, full of terror, strangled, suddenly broken off.
Although he shivered with cold Miller felt the perspiration spring out on his forehead. He struck the match and held it to the candles. The arabesques appeared to twist and twine more violently. The odour from the paper seemed more pungent in spite of the open window. The dripping ceased. He glanced at the floor near the head of the bed, but he saw nothing. It was several minutes before he realised it was Molly who had screamed.
He threw on his clothes, picked up a candle, snatched his revolver from beneath the pillow, and stepped to the hall.
Molly’s cry had not been repeated, but something was moving at the foot of the stairs, and he could hear thick breathing. He paused before the door, open a little as Molly had promised. He was afraid to knock, afraid to ask. Finally he forced the words.
“Andy! Molly called—”
Molly’s voice, still a little choked, came to him.
“There’s something in this room.”
Miller pushed the door open.
“Wait!” Anderson commanded in a level, lifeless voice. ” There’s danger. I said the circle was closing. It is closing.”
Miller paused on the threshold. Molly sat up in bed, a dressing gown thrown over her shoulders. Anderson leaned on his elbow.
“Don’t come in, Jim,” he said. “Listen!”
Miller looked around the room. He spoke reassuringly.
“There’s no one—nothing.”
“Listen!” Anderson repeated.
Miller heard nothing, so after a moment he stepped into the room. Then he heard—a sound like shot shaken in a crimper.
“They’re daring,” Anderson said dreamily. “I knew they were growing daring. I was afraid they were getting ready—”
“Andy!” Miller cried. “Pull yourself together!”
He held his revolver in front of him and stooped. He looked under the bed, in the four corners. He could see nothing, but the rattle was repeated.
“You two get out of here,” he whispered. “It’s safe to step down on this side. But hurry. Get to the hall.”
When they had obeyed him he arose, followed them, and closed the door. The rattling came again, apparently from just within the room, yet Miller had seen no snake.
Shaking his head, he led them down the stairs. He found Tony, lying on the steps half way up. The man raised his bearded face to the candle, mouthing horribly.
“I tried to come,” he muttered, “I tried—”
“You’re not hurt?” Miller asked sharply.
Tony shook his head. He crept backwards down the stairs, his face turned to the light.
The diningroom fire smouldered. As he entered Miller felt a cold breath on his cheek. He hurried through to the kitchen. After a moment he called :
“Tony! Did you open this window?”
He came back.
“Open of those windows—you saw me close it and lock it. You must have opened it, Tony.”
Vehemently the native shook his head.
“Did you hear anything come through here?”
“All night,” Tony answered, pointing to the hall door,” something moving—walking out there.”
“And the window in your bedroom,” Miller said to Anderson. “That was open, too, but it’s high and on the side.”
“Jim, remember you didn’t see anything,” Anderson said softly.
“I’m going through this house from top to bottom,” Miller said determinedly. “I shan’t sleep again until I know. Make yourselves as comfortable as possible here. Molly, fill that lamp. Let’s start this fire up.”
He stopped and threw a log on the andirons.
“Did you hear?” Molly asked under her breath.
Still stooping. Miller turned to her. She had assumed again that tense, listening pose.
“What?” he asked.
She put her finger on her lips.
“Outside. Wait. It may come again.”
Taut and expectant they waited for several minutes, hearing only the crackling of the fresh log and the moaning of the wind in the chimney. Then Molly raised her hand. A quavering voice reached them, very faintly.
Miller sprang to his feet.
“Stay here,” he said.
He ran to the hall, drawing his revolver from his pocket.
“Jim!” Molly cried. ” Where are you going?”
“Don’t come, Andy,” he called,” unless I shout.”
He flung the front door open and ran into the clearing.
Momentarily the moon swayed free of its enveloping clouds. Abruptly the tiny section of the inlet flashed back its light. There, in a frame of trees with a background of black and ragged dunes, stood the fisherman on the deck of his rotten tub—gigantic, statuesque.
Immediately the clouds snatched the moon back to their obscure embrace. The picture snapped out.
The wind strained and tore past Miller. He could scarcely keep his eyes open to its fury. But he started across the clearing towards the path, for he fancied even in this darkness there was something there at the edge of the clearing. He raised his revolver. He crept forward, muttering to the night :
“Come out! Whoever you are don’t try to run back. Come out! Come out!”
A figure threw itself against him and raised warm hands to his face. His arm with the revolver dropped.
“You—” he began.
“I have been at the edge of the forest,” the girl said.
“Why are you here?” he asked.
“To tell you to go back. Last night—remember. Tonight you must run this way. The island is not safe.”
“Why?” he said. “I shall not run.”
“Yes. You must run to the river. You cannot go back this way. You cannot get to the inlet. I didn’t think I could get through, but I got through to tell you that. Run to the river. It may be safe there.”
“For God’s sake,” he begged, “tell me what it is.”
“The island is full of death tonight.”
“Then go to the house. Take the Andersons to the river. There’s a boat there.”
“Come with me.”
“No. I shall stay and fight this death. I have to know what it is. Don’t be afraid for me.”
He could feel her trembling beneath her heavy black cloak. She dragged at his arm.
“No, no. I love you. I will leave the island with you.”
By sheer strength she pulled him a step or two backwards.
“You have lied to me,” she said fiercely. “If you loved me you couldn’t question now.”
Suddenly her face was etched against the darkness. A blue gleam seemed to play over it, to disclose its tortured, passionate terror.
And, as she pulled at his arm, the light reached her wrists. Her wrists were torn and bleeding.
Miller grasped them with a cry and turned. Above the dangerous forest floated a pallid, unnatural light. It was blue. It wavered. It increased. It seemed to fill the sky.
The girl sank to the ground. He tried to raise her, but she drew back.
“It is too late,” she said in a dead voice. “You wouldn’t listen. There is no hope now.”
MILLER slipped his revolver in his pocket and caught the girl up in his arms. As he carried her towards the steps their shadows were flung by the blue light in grotesque distortions across the surface of the coquina house.
He thought she had fainted, but when at the door he stooped and kissed her lips she responded with a quick abandonment.
Anderson waited fretfully in the hall. He threw the door open. Molly was at his back. Tony stood hesitant, just within the diningroom.
“Who—” Anderson began. “The girl! Where—”
“She came with a warning,” Miller answered.
Molly cried out:
“What is that light, Jim?”
Anderson ran down the steps.
“The woods have been fired between here and the plantation!”
“No, Andy,” Miller called after him. ” The light is above the trees. It is not fire.”
He carried the girl to a chair in the diningroom.
“Take care of her, Molly. I—”
He broke off. Molly looked at him, guessing the truth. Anderson returned quickly.
“That ghastly light!” he said. “It isn’t fire.”
Miller pointed at the girl’s torn wrists. She quivered before his gesture and tried to hide her hands.
“The wrists again!” Molly whispered.
Tony shrank against the mantel.
“Tell me,” Miller demanded, “how were your wrists injured?”
She thrust her wrists behind her back.
“Answer me,” he said almost roughly. “Was it coming through that piece of woods?”
She pressed her lips tightly together. There was no colour in her face.
“The one physical clue!” Miller cried “Answer me! Answer me! Do you know how your wrists were torn?”
After a moment she nodded slowly.
“Then tell us! So much depends on that! Tell
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