The Bandbox by Louis Joseph Vance (read novels website .txt) 📕

“Will you take me with you when you leave this island tonight?” she demanded.

He shook his head with his derisive smile. She had discounted that answer.

“How long do you mean to keep me here?”

“That depends on how agreeable you make yourself,” he said obscurely.

“What do you mean?”

“Merely that ... well, it’s a pleasant, salubrious spot, Wreck Island. You’ll find it uncommonly healthful and enjoyable, too, as soon as you get over the loneliness. Not that you’ll be so terribly lonely; I shall be here more or less, off and on, much of the time for the next few weeks. I don’t mind telling you, in strict confidence, as between father and child, that I’m planning to pull off something pretty big before long; of course it will need a bit of arranging in advance to make everything run smoothly, and this is ideal for a man of my retiring disposition, not overfond of the espionage of his fellow-men. So, if you’re docile and affectionate, we may see a great deal of one another for some weeks—as I said.”

“And if not—?”

“Well”—he waved his hands expressively—“of course, if you incline to be forward and disobedient, then I shall be obliged to deny you the light of my countenance, by way of punishment.”

She shook her head impatiently. “I want to know when you will let me go,” she insisted, struggling against the oppression of her sense of helplessness.

“I really can’t say.” He pretended politely to suppress a yawn, indicating that the subject bored him inordinately. “If I could trust you—”

“Can you expect that, after the way you treated me last night—this morning?”

“Ah, well!” he said, claw-like fingers stroking his lips to conceal his smile of mockery.

“You lied to me, drugged me, robbed me of the necklace, brought me here....”

“Guilty,” he said, yawning openly.

“Why? You could have taken the necklace from me at the hotel. Why must you bring me here and keep me prisoner?”

“The pleasure of my only daughter’s society....”

“Oh, you’re despicable!” she cried, furious.

He nodded thoughtfully, fumbling with his lips.

“Won’t you tell me why?” she pleaded.

He shook his head. “You wouldn’t understand,” he added in a tone of maddening commiseration.

“I shan’t stay!” she declared angrily.

“Oh, I think you will,” he replied gently.

“I’ll get away and inform on you if I have to swim.”

“It’s a long, wet swim,” he mused aloud—“over a mile, I should say. Have you ever swum over a hundred yards in your life?”

She was silent, choking with rage.

“And furthermore,” he went on, “there are the Clovers. Excellent people, excellent—for my purposes. I have found them quite invaluable—asking no questions, minding their own business, keen to obey my instructions to the letter. I have already instructed them about you, my child. I trust you will be careful not to provoke them; it’d be a pity ... you’re rather good-looking, you know ...”

“What do you mean by that?” she stammered, a little frightened by the secret menace in his tone. “What have my looks to do with ...?”

“Everything,” he said softly—“everything. Not so far as Ephraim is concerned; I’ll be frank with you—you needn’t fear Ephraim’s hurting you, much, should you attempt to escape. He will simply restrain you, using force only if necessary. But Mrs. Clover ... she’s different. You mustn’t let her deceive you; she seems kindly disposed enough; she’s pleasant spoken but ... well, she’s not fond of pretty women. It’s an obsession of hers that prettiness and badness go together. And Ephraim is fond of pretty women—very. You see?”

“Well?”

“Well, that’s why I have these people in so strong a hold. You see, Ephraim got himself into trouble trying to pull off one of those bungling, amateurish burglaries that his kind go in for so extensively; he wanted the money to buy things for a pretty woman. And he was already a married man. You can see how Mrs. Clover felt about it. She—ah—cut up rather nasty. When she got through with the other woman, no one would have called her pretty any longer. Vitriol’s a dreadful thing....”

He paused an instant, seeming to review the case sombrely. “I managed to get them both off, scot free; and that makes them loyal. But it would go hard with anyone who tried to escape to the mainland and tell on them—to say nothing of me.... Mrs. Clover has ever since been quite convinced of the virtue of vitriol. She keeps a supply handy most of the time, in case of emergencies. And she sleeps lightly; don’t forget that. I hate to think of what she might do if she thought you meant to run away and tell tales.”

Slowly, step by step, guessing the way to the outer door, the girl backed away from him, her face colourless with horror. Very probably he was lying to frighten her; very possibly (she feared desperately) he was not. What she knew of him was hardly reassuring; the innate, callous depravity that had poisoned this man beyond cure might well have caused the death-in-life of other souls. What he was capable of, others might be; and what she knew him to be capable of, she hardly liked to dwell upon. Excusably she conceived her position more than desperate; and now her sole instinct was to get away from him, if only for a little time, out of the fœtid atmosphere of his presence, away from the envenomed irony of his voice—away and alone, where she could recollect her faculties and again realise her ego, that inner self that she had tried so hard to keep stainless, unspoiled and unafraid.

He watched her as she crept inch by inch toward the door, his nervous fingers busy about his mouth as if trying to erase that dangerous, evil smile.

“Before you go,” he said suddenly, “I should tell you that you will be alone with Mrs. Clover tonight. I’m going to town, and Ephraim’s to wait with the boat at Pennymint Point, because I mean to return before morning. But you needn’t wait up for me; Mrs. Clover will do that.”

Eleanor made no reply. While he was speaking she had gained the door. As she stepped out, Mrs. Clover reappeared, making vigorously round the corner of the house.

Passing Eleanor on the stoop, she gave her a busy, friendly nod, and hurried in.

“Eph’ll be up in half an hour,” she heard her say. “Shall I serve your supper now?”

“Please,” he said quietly.

The girl stumbled down the steps and blindly fled the sound of his voice.

Her initial rush carried Eleanor well round the front of the building. Then, as suddenly as she had started off, she stopped, common-sense reasserting itself to assure her that there was nothing to be gained by running until exhausted; her enemy was not pursuing her. It was evident that she was to be left to her own devices as long as they did not impel her to attempt an escape—as long as she made herself supple to his will.

She stood for a long minute, very erect, head up and shoulders back, eyes closed and lips taut, her hands close-clenched at her sides. Then drawing a long breath, she relaxed and, with a quiet composure admirably self-enforced, moved on, setting herself to explore and consider her surroundings.

The abandoned hotel faced the south, overlooking the greater breadth of Long Island Sound. In its era of prosperity, the land in front of it to the water’s edge, and indeed for a considerable space on all sides had been clear—laid out, no doubt, in grassy lawns, croquet grounds and tennis courts; but in the long years of its desuetude these had reverted to the primitive character of the main portion of the island, to a tangle of undergrowth and shrubbery sprinkled with scrub-oak and stunted pines. In one spot only, a meagre kitchen-garden was under cultivation.

Southward, at the shore, a row of weather-beaten and ramshackle bath-houses stood beside the rotting remnants of a long dock whose piles, bereft of their platform of planks, ran out into the water in a dreary double rank.

Westward, a patch of woodland—progenitor by every characteristic of the tangle in the one-time clearing—shut off that extremity of the island where it ran out into a sandy point. Eastward lay an extensive acreage of low, rounded sand dunes, held together by rank beach-grass and bordered by a broad, slowly shelving beach of sand and pebbles. To the north, at the back of the hotel, stretched a waste of low ground finally merging into a small salt-marsh. Across this wandered a thin plank walk on stilts which, over the clear water beyond the marsh, became a rickety landing-stage. At some distance out from the latter a long, slender, slate-coloured motor-boat rode at its moorings, a rowboat swinging from its stern. In the larger craft Eleanor could see the head and shoulders of a man bending over the engine—undoubtedly Mr. Ephraim Clover. While she watched him, he straightened up and, going to the stern of the motor-boat, began to pull the dory in by its painter. Having brought it alongside, he transshipped himself awkwardly, then began to drive the dory in to the dock. Eleanor remarked the fact that he stood up to the task, propelling the boat by means of a single oar, thrusting it into the water until it struck bottom and then putting his weight upon it. The water was evidently quite shallow; even where the motor-boat lay moored, the oar disappeared no more than half its length.

Presently, having gained the landing-stage, the man clambered upon it, threw a couple of half-hitches in the painter round one of the stakes, shouldered the oars and began to shamble toward the hotel: a tall, ungainly figure blackly silhouetted against the steel-blue sky of evening.

Eleanor waited where she was, near the beginning of the plank walk, to get a better look at him. In time he passed her, with a shy nod and sidelong glance. He seemed to be well past middle-age, of no pretensions whatever to physical loveliness and (she would have said) incurably lazy and stupid: his face dull and heavy, his whole carriage eloquent of a nature of sluggish shiftlessness.

He disappeared round the house, and a moment later she heard Mrs. Clover haranguing him in a shrill voice of impatience little resembling the tone she had employed with the girl.

For an instant Eleanor dreamed wildly of running down to the dock, throwing herself into the rowboat and casting it off to drift whither it would. But the folly of this was too readily apparent; even if she might be sure that the tide would carry her away from the island, the water was so shallow that a man could wade out to the motor-boat, climb into it and run her down with discouraging ease. As for the motor-boat—she hadn’t the least idea of the art of running a motor; and besides, she would be overhauled before she could get to it; for she made no doubt whatever that she was being very closely watched, and would be until the men had left the island. After that ... a vista of days of grinding loneliness and hopeless despair opened out before her disheartened mental vision.

She resumed her aimless tour of inspection, little caring whither she wandered so long as it was far from the house, as far as possible from ... him.

Sensibly the desolate spirit of the spot saturated her mood. No case that she had ever heard of seemed to her so desperate as that of the lonely, helpless girl marooned upon this wave-bound patch of earth and sand, cut off