How long Harrison lay like dead he never knew, blinded, deafened and paralyzed; covered by falling debris. His first realization was that there was something soft under him, something that writhed and whimpered. He had a vague feeling he ought not to hurt this soft something, so he began to shove the broken stones and mortar off him. His arm seemed dead, but eventually he excavated himself and staggered up, looking like a scarecrow in his rags. He groped among the rubble, grasped the girl and pulled her up.
“Joan!” His own voice seemed to come to him from a great distance; he had to shout to make her hear him. Their eardrums had been almost split by the concussion.
“Are you hurt?” He ran his one good hand over her to make sure.
“I don’t think so,” she faltered dazedly. “What—what happened?”
“Khoda Khan’s bomb exploded the dynamite. The house fell in on the Mongols. We were sheltered by that wall; that’s all that saved us.”
The wall was a shattered heap of broken stone, half covered by rubble —a waste of shattered masonry with broken beams thrust up through the litter, and shards of walls reeling drunkenly. Harrison fingered his broken arm and tried to think, his head swimming.
“Where is Khoda Khan?” cried Joan, seeming finally to shake off her daze.
“I’ll look for him.” Harrison dreaded what he expected to find. “He was blown off the wall like a straw in a wind.”
Stumbling over broken stones and bits of timber, he found the Afghan huddled grotesquely against the steel fence. His fumbling fingers told him of broken bones—but the man was still breathing. Joan came stumbling toward him, to fall beside Khoda Khan and flutter her quick fingers over him, sobbing hysterically.
“He’s not like civilized man!” she exclaimed, tears running down her stained, scratched face. “Afghans are harder than cats to kill. If we could get him medical attention he’ll live. Listen!” She caught Harrison’s arm with galvanized fingers; but he had heard it too—the sputter of a motor that was probably a police launch, coming to investigate the explosion.
Joan was tearing her scanty garments to pieces to staunch the blood that seeped from the Afghan’s wounds, when miraculously Khoda Khan’s pulped lips moved. Harrison, bending close, caught fragments of words: “The curse of Allah—Chinese dog—swine’s flesh—my izzat.”
“You needn’t worry about your izzat,” grunted Harrison, glancing at the ruins which hid the mangled figures that had been Mongolian terrorists. “After this night’s work you’ll not go to jail—not for all the Chinamen in River Street.”
* * *
GRAVEYARD RATS
~
1. — THE HEAD FROM THE GRAVE
SAUL WILKINSON AWOKE SUDDENLY, AND lay in the darkness with beads of cold sweat on his hands and face. He shuddered at the memory of the dream from which he had awakened.
But horrible dreams were nothing uncommon. Grisly nightmares had haunted his sleep since early childhood. It was another fear that clutched his heart with icy fingers—fear of the sound that had roused him. It had been a furtive step—hands fumbling in the dark.
And now a small scurrying sounded in the room—a rat running back and forth across the floor.
He groped under his pillow with trembling fingers. The house was still, but imagination peopled its darkness with shapes of horror. But it was not all imagination. A faint stir of air told him the door that gave on the broad hallway was open. He knew he had closed that door before he went to bed. And he knew it was not one of his brothers who had come so subtly to his room.
In that fear-tense, hate-haunted household, no man came by night to his brother’s room without first making himself known.
This was especially the case since an old feud had claimed the eldest brother four days since—John Wilkinson, shot down in the streets of the little hill-country town by Joel Middleton, who had escaped into the post oak grown hills, swearing still greater vengeance against the Wilkinsons.
All this flashed through Saul’s mind as he drew the revolver from under his pillow.
As he slid out of bed, the creak of the springs brought his heart into his throat, and he crouched there for a moment, holding his breath and straining his eyes into the darkness.
Richard was sleeping upstairs, and so was Harrison, the city detective Peter had brought out to hunt down Joel Middleton. Peter’s room was on the ground floor, but in another wing. A yell for help might awaken all three, but it would also bring a hail of lead at him, if Joel Middleton were crouching over there in the blackness.
Saul knew this was his fight, and must be fought out alone, in the darkness he had always feared and hated. And all the time sounded that light, scampering patter of tiny feet, racing up and down, up and down...
Crouching against the wall, cursing the pounding of his heart, Saul fought to steady his quivering nerves. He was backed against the wall which formed the partition between his room and the hall.
The windows were faint grey squares in the blackness, and he could dimly make out objects of furniture in all except one side of the room. Joel Middleton must be over there, crouching by the old fireplace, which was invisible in the darkness.
But why was he waiting? And why was that accursed rat racing up and down before the fireplace, as if in a frenzy of fear and greed? Just so Saul had seen rats race up and down the floor of the meat-house, frantic to get at flesh suspended out of reach.
Noiselessly, Saul moved along the wall toward the door. If a man was in the room, he would presently be lined between himself and a window. But as he glided along the wall like a night-shirted ghost, no ominous bulk grew out of the darkness. He reached the door and closed it soundlessly, wincing at his nearness to the unrelieved blackness of the hall outside.
But nothing happened. The only sounds were the wild beating of his heart, the loud ticking of the old clock on the mantelpiece—the maddening patter of the unseen rat. Saul clenched his teeth against the shrieking of his tortured nerves. Even in his growing terror he found time to wonder frantically why that rat ran up and down before the fireplace.
The tension became unbearable. The open door proved that Middleton, or someone—or something —had come into that room. Why would Middleton come save to kill? But why in God’s name had he not struck already? What was he waiting for?
Saul’s nerve snapped suddenly. The darkness was strangling him and those pattering rat-feet were red-hot hammers on his crumbling brain. He must have light, even though that light brought hot lead ripping through him.
In stumbling haste he groped to the mantelpiece, fumbling for the lamp. And he cried out—a choked, horrible croak that could not have carried beyond his room. For his hand, groping in the dark on the mantel, had touched the hair on a human scalp!
A furious squeal sounded in the darkness at his feet and a sharp pain pierced his ankle as the rat attacked him, as if he were an intruder seeking to rob it of some coveted object.
But Saul was hardly aware of the rodent as he kicked it away and reeled back, his brain a whirling turmoil. Matches and candles were on the table, and to it he lurched, his hands sweeping the dark and finding what he wanted.
He lighted a candle and turned, gun lifted in a shaking hand. There was no living man in the room except himself. But his distended eyes focused themselves on the mantelpiece—and the object on it.
He stood frozen, his brain at first refusing to register what his eyes revealed. Then he croaked inhumanly and the gun crashed on the hearth as it slipped through his numb fingers.
John Wilkinson was dead, with a bullet through his heart. It had been three days since Saul had seen his body nailed into the crude coffin and lowered into the grave in the old Wilkinson family graveyard. For three days the hard clay soil had baked in the hot sun above the coffined form of John Wilkinson.
Yet from the mantel John Wilkinson’s face leered at him—white and cold and dead.
It was no nightmare, no dream of madness. There, on the mantelpiece rested John Wilkin
son’s severed head.
And before the fireplace, up and down, up and down, scampered a creature with red eyes, that squeaked and squealed—a great grey rat, maddened by its failure to reach the flesh its ghoulish hunger craved.
Saul Wilkinson began to laugh—horrible, soul-shaking shrieks that mingled with the squealing of the grey ghoul. Saul’s body rocked to and fro, and the laughter turned to insane weeping, that gave way in turn to hideous screams that echoed through the old house and brought the sleepers out of their sleep.
They were the screams of a madman. The horror of what he had seen had blasted Saul Wilkinson’s reason like a blown-out candle flame.
* * *
2. — MADMAN’S HATE
IT WAS those screams which roused Steve Harrison, sleeping in an upstairs chamber. Before he was fully awake he was on his way down the unlighted stairs, pistol in one hand and flashlight in the other.
Down in the hallway he saw light streaming from under a closed door, and made for it. But another was before him. Just as Harrison reached the landing, he saw a figure rushing across the hall, and flashed his beam on it.
It was Peter Wilkinson, tall and gaunt, with a poker in his hand. He yelled something incoherent, threw open the door and rushed in.
Harrison heard him exclaim: “Saul! What’s the matter? What are you looking at—” Then a terrible cry: “My God!”
The poker clanged on the floor, and then the screams of the maniac rose to a crescendo of fury.
It was at this instant that Harrison reached the door and took in the scene with one startled glance. He saw two men in nightshirts grappling in the candlelight, while from the mantel a cold, dead, white face looked blindly down on them, and a grey rat ran in mad circles about their feet.
Into that scene of horror and madness Harrison propelled his powerful, thick-set body. Peter Wilkinson was in sore straits. He had dropped his poker and now, with blood streaming from a wound in his head, he was vainly striving to tear Saul’s lean fingers from his throat.
The glare in Saul’s eyes told Harrison the man was mad. Crooking one massive arm about the maniac’s neck, he tore him loose from his victim with an exertion of sheer strength that not even the abnormal energy of insanity could resist.
The madman’s stringy muscles were like steel wires under the detective’s hands, and Saul twisted about in his grasp, his teeth snapping, beastlike, for Harrison’s bull-throat. The detective shoved the clawing, frothing fury away from him and smashed a fist to the madman’s jaw. Saul crashed to the floor and lay still, eyes glazed and limbs quivering.
Peter reeled back against a table, purple-faced and gagging.
“Get cords, quick!” snapped Harrison, heaving the limp figure off the floor and letting it slump into a great arm-chair. “Tear that sheet in strips. We’ve got to tie him up before he comes to. Hell’s fire!”
The rat had made a ravening attack on the senseless man’s bare feet. Harrison kicked it away, but it squeaked furiously and came charging back with ghoulish persistence. Harrison crushed it under his foot, cutting short its maddened squeal.
Peter, gasping convulsively, thrust into the detective’s hands the strips he had torn from the sheet, and Harrison bound the limp limbs with professional efficiency. In the midst of his task he looked up to see Richard, the youngest brother, standing in the doorway, his face like chalk.
“Richard!” choked Peter. “Look! My God! John’s head!”
“I see!” Richard licked his lips. “But why are you tying up Saul?”
“He’s crazy,” snapped Harrison. “Get me some whiskey, will you?”
As Richard reached for a bottle on a curtained shelf, booted feet hit the porch outside, and a voice yelled: “Hey, there! Dick! What’s wrong?”
“That’s our neighbor, Jim Allison,” muttered Peter.
He stepped to the door opposite the one that opened into the hall and turned the key in the ancient lock. That door opened upon a side porch. A tousle-headed man with his pants pulled on over his nightshirt came blundering in.
“What’s the matter?” he demanded. “I heard somebody hollerin’, and run over quick as I could. What you doin’ to Saul—good God Almighty!”
He had seen the head on the mantel, and his face went ashen.
“Go get the marshal, Jim!” croaked Peter. “This is Joel Middleton’s work!”
Allison hurried out, stumbling as he peered back over his shoulder in morbid fascination.
Harrison had managed to spill some liquor between Saul’s livid lips. He handed the bottle to Peter and stepped to the mantel. He touched the grisly object, shivering slightly as he did so. His eyes narrowed suddenly.
“You think Middleton dug up your brother’s grave and cut off his head?” he asked.
“Who else?” Peter stared blankly at him.
“Saul’s mad. Madmen do strange things. Maybe Saul did this.”
“No! No!” exclaimed Peter, shuddering. “Saul hasn’t left the house all day. John’s grave was undisturbed this morning, when I stopped by the old graveyard on my way to the farm. Saul was sane when he went to bed. It was seeing John’s head that drove him mad. Joel Middleton has been here, to take this horrible revenge!” He sprang up suddenly, shrilling, “My God, he may still be hiding in the house somewhere!”
“We’ll search it,” snapped Harrison. “Richard, you stay here with Saul. You might come with me, Peter.”
In the hall outside the detective directed a beam of light on the heavy front door. The key was turned in the massive lock. He turned and strode down the hall, asking: “Which door is farthest from any sleeping chamber?”
“The back kitchen door!” Peter answered, and led the way. A few moments later they were standing before it. It stood partly open, framing a crack of starlit sky.
“He must have come and gone this way,” muttered Harrison. “You’re sure this door was locked?”
“I locked all outer doors myself,” asserted Peter. “Look at those scratches on the outer side! And there’s the key lying on the floor inside.”
“Old-fashioned lock,” grunted Harrison. “A man could work the key out with a wire from the outer side and force the lock easily. And this is the logical lock to force, because the noise of breaking it wouldn’t likely be heard by anybody in the house.”
He stepped out onto the deep back porch. The broad back yard was without trees or brushes, separated by a barbed-wire fence from a pasture lot, which ran to a wood-lot thickly grown with post oaks, part of the woods which hemmed in the village of Lost Knob on all sides.
Peter stared toward that woodland, a low, black rampart in the faint starlight, and he shivered.
“He’s out there, somewhere!” he whispered. “I never suspected he’d dare strike at us in our own house. I brought you here to hunt him down. I never thought we’d need you to protect us!”
Without replying, Harrison stepped down into the yard. Peter cringed back from the starlight, and remained crouching at the edge of the porch.
Harrison crossed the narrow pasture and paused at the ancient rail fence which separated it from the woods. They were black as only post oak thickets can be.
No rustle of leaves, no scrape of branches betrayed a lurking presence. If Joel Middleton had been there, he must have already sought refuge in the rugged hills that surrounded Lost Knob.
Harrison turned back toward the house. He had arrived at Lost Knob late the preceding evening. It was now somewhat past midnight. But the grisly news was spreading, even in the dead of night.
The Wilkinson house stood at the western edge of the town, and the Allison house was the only one within a hundred yards of it. But Harrison saw lights springing up in distant windows.
Peter stood on the porch, head out-thrust on his long, buzzard-like neck.
“Find anything?” he called anxiously.
“Tracks wouldn’t show on this hard-baked ground,” grunted the detective. “Just what did you see when you ran into Saul’s room?�
��
“Saul standing before the mantelboard, screaming with his mouth wide open,” answered Peter. “When I saw—what he saw, I must have cried out and dropped the poker. Then Saul leaped on me like a wild beast.”
“Was his door locked?”
“Closed, but not locked. The lock got broken accidentally a few days ago.”
“One more question: has Middleton ever been in this house before?”
“Not to my knowledge,” replied Peter grimly. “Our families have hated each other for twenty-five years. Joel’s the last of his name.”
Harrison re-entered the house. Allison had returned with the marshal, McVey, a tall, taciturn man who plainly resented the detective’s presence. Men were gathering on the side porch and in the yard. They talked in low mutters, except for Jim Allison, who was vociferous in his indignation.
“This finishes Joel Middleton!” he proclaimed loudly. “Some folks sided with him when he killed John. I wonder what they think now? Diggin’ up a dead man and cuttin’ his head off! That’s Injun work! I reckon folks won’t wait for no jury to tell ‘em what to do with Joel Middleton!”
“Better catch him before you start lynchin’ him,” grunted McVey. “Peter, I’m takin’ Saul to the county seat.”
Peter nodded mutely. Saul was recovering consciousness, but the mad glaze of his eyes was unaltered. Harrison spoke:
“Suppose we go to the Wilkinson graveyard and see what we can find? We might be able to track Middleton from there.”
“They brought you in here to do the job they didn’t think I was good enough to do,” snarled McVey. “All right. Go ahead and do it—alone. I’m takin’ Saul to the county seat.”
With the aid of his deputies he lifted the bound maniac and strode out. Neither Peter nor Richard offered to accompany him. A tall, gangling man stepped from among his fellows and awkwardly addressed Harrison:
“What the marshal does is his own business, but all of us here are ready to help all we can, if you want to git a posse together and comb the country.”
Detective of the Occult Page 8
