“Now,” he signed to me to leave the room, “we have a further duty to perform, my friend; one which shall write finis to this chapter of unhappy incidents, I hope.”
Downstairs in the cellar Ah Kee had built a roaring fire of oil-soaked wood and shavings in the big, old-fashioned hot-air furnace. Thither de Grandin led me, and paused a moment at the cellar door to take up a blood-soaked burlap sack.
Into the blazing firebox of the furnace he flung the bag, and as the hungry flames enveloped it we saw, for an instant, the beautiful, cruel face of Salanga, the Malay woman, look at us with fixed, staring eyes which, even in the still, set state of death, were freighted with a gaze of deadly hatred.
“Adieu, Madame Penanggalan; adieu pour l’éternité,” de Grandin raised hand to lips in a sardonic gesture of farewell as the lapping tongue of fire closed above the severed head and blotted it from sight.
“And now, pardieu, I think that it is time we left,” he told me as he turned upon his heel.
“HOW WAS IT THAT you knew we’d find them in the cemetery?” I asked as we drove slowly toward the city.
He chuckled as he lit a cigarette before replying:
“You may recall that I asked Mademoiselle Jeanne who officiated at her father’s burial?”
“Yes.”
“Très bien. And that I told you that my theory of the case depended on the information Monsieur Martin gave us?”
“Of course.”
“Very well, then. As I have told you, these penanggalans are unable to fly across tide waters; but there is no reason why they can not be carried over. No, certainly.
“Alors, I said to me, ‘Jules de Grandin, the body of this Malay stepmother of Mademoiselle Jeanne was found breast-down upon the grave of him who was her husband. Is it not so?’
“‘It are indubitably so,’ I answer me.
“‘Very well, then,’ I tell me, ‘you should know that these Malay demons make their lairs in tombs and graves and old, deserted houses and similar unpleasant places. Are it not possible that she traveled to that grave to shed her head, leaving her body on the earth while the head burrowed downward and found a resting-place inside the coffin with the corpse?’
“‘It are entirely feasible, Jules de Grandin,’ I agree. ‘And if she hid herself in that coffin she would have no inconvenience coming as a passenger across the ocean. No.’
“‘Ah, but,’ I object, ‘that Monsieur Martin, you know him. He is un homme d’affaires; surely he would not permit an opportunity for profit to pass by; undoubtlessly he induced Mademoiselle Jeanne to purchase a new casket, and when he transferred Monsieur Haines’ body to its new abode he must necessarily have opened that old coffin. Perhaps he saw the penanggalan? Perhaps he liberated it from its prison as Pandora let loose the troubles from her box? Who knows?’
“‘Perhaps,’ I answer, ‘but all such speculation is the business of the little fish of April. Why not go see Monsieur Martin? He will tell you truly.’
“And so to Monsieur Martin we did go, and he told us that he had not opened that old coffin. Par conséquent, it followed that the penanggalan was in there yet, or at least it was highly probable that she still used it for home.
“Accordingly, I decided that I would exhume that coffin my own self and find the cause of all our troubles while she rested there by day and make an end of her. But those sacré fools of cemetery people, they would not hear of it. ‘It are impossible,’ they tell me, and I am balked.
“Then, tonight, when we find we are too late and the wicked penanggalan has worked her evil will on poor Mademoiselle Jeanne, I took the chance, played on the hunch, as you Americans say, and hastened to the graveyard to intercept them at Monsieur Haines’ tomb. ‘For if she really makes that grave her den, then it is probable that she will lead her victim to it, also,’ I tell myself. It would be the height of evil vengeance to make the daughter house herself in the coffin with the body of her father. And she is vengeful, that one; oh, but she is vengeful as the devil’s self. Yes, of course.
“We were fortunate. The wound which I had given her in my anger made her slow of flight, and so we got there first. We arrived in time to intercept them ere they could burrow out of sight. The rest you know.”
“But,” I persisted as we turned into my driveway, “how was it possible for the penanggalan to force her—its—way down through the earth and into that airtight coffin? The laws of physics—”
“Ah bah,” he interrupted with a laugh, “I know not whether the laws of physics or of metaphysics govern in such cases; one thing I truly know, however: that is that we saw what we beheld with our own eyes tonight, and no one can say otherwise. And one more thing I know, as well: that is that at present I am greatly conscious of the workings of the law of impenetrability.”
“Impenetrability?”
“But certainly, my friend. The proposition is most simple. This monstrous thirst of mine can not continue so to plague my throat when I have poured a pint or so of brandy down it. No, of course not.”
The Mansion of Unholy Magic
“CAR, SIR? TAKE YOU anywhere you want to go.”
It was a quaint-looking figure which stood before us on the railway station platform, a figure difficult to classify as to age, status, or even sex. A man’s gray felt hat which had seen better days, though not recently, was perched upon a head of close-cropped, tightly, curling blond hair, surmounting a face liberally strewn with freckles. A pull-over sweater of gray cardigan sheathed boyishly broad shoulders and boyishly narrow hips and waist, while the straight, slim legs were encased in a pair of laundry-faded jodhpurs of cotton corduroy. A pair of bright pink coral ear-drops completed the ensemble.
Jules de Grandin eased the strap by which his triple-barreled Knaak combination gun swung from his left shoulder and favored the solicitor with a look denoting compound interest. “A car?” he echoed. “But no, I do not think we need one. The motor stage—”
“The bus isn’t running,” the other interrupted. “They had an accident this afternoon and the driver broke his arm; so I ran over to see if I could pick up any passengers. I’ve got my car here, and I’ll be glad to take you where you want to go—if you’ll hurry.”
“But certainly,” the Frenchman agreed with one of his quick smiles. “We go to Monsieur Sutter’s hunting-lodge. You know the way?”
A vaguely troubled look clouded the clear gray eyes regarding him as he announced our destination. “Sutter’s lodge?” the girl—by now I had determined that it was a girl—repeated as she cast a half-calculating, half-fearful glance at the lengthening lines of red and orange which streaked the western sky. “Oh, all right; I’ll take you there, but we’ll have to hurry. I don’t want to—come on, please.”
She led the way to a travel-stained Model T Ford touring-car, swung open the tonneau door and climbed nimbly to the driving-seat.
“All right?” she asked across her shoulder, and ere we had a chance to answer put the ancient vehicle in violent motion, charging down the unkempt country road as though she might be driving for a prize.
“Eh bien, my friend, this is a singularly unengaging bit of country,” de Grandin commented as our rattling chariot proceeded at breakneck speed along a road which became progressively worse. “At our present pace I estimate that we have come five miles, yet not one single habitation have we passed, not a ray of light or wreath of smoke have we seen, nor—” he broke off, grasping at his cap as the almost springless car catapulted itself across a particularly vicious hummock in the road.
“Desist, ma belle chauffeuse,” he cried. “We desire to sleep together in one piece tonight; but one more bump like that and—” he clutched at the car-side while the venerable flivver launched itself upon another aerial excursion.
“Mister,” our driver turned her serious, uncompromising face upon us while she drove her foot still harder down on the accelerator, “this is no place to take your time. We’ll all be lucky to sleep in bed tonight, I’m thinkin’, in o
ne piece or several, if I don’t—”
“Look out, girl!” I shouted, for the car, released from her guiding hand while she answered de Grandin’s complaint, had lurched across the narrow roadway and was headed for a great, black-boled pine which grew beside the trail. With a wrench she brought the vehicle once more to the center of the road, putting on an extra burst of speed as she did so.
“If we ever get out of this,” I told de Grandin through chattering teeth, “I’ll never trust myself to one of these modern young fools’ driving, you may be—”
“If we emerge from this with nothing more than Mademoiselle’s driving to trouble us, I think we shall be more lucky than I think,” he cut in seriously.
“What d’ye mean?” I asked exasperated. “If—”
“If you will look behind us, perhaps you will be good enough to tell me what it is you see,” he interrupted, as he began unfastening the buckles of his gun-case.
“Why,” I answered as I glanced across the lurching car’s rear cushion, “it’s a man, de Grandin. A running man.”
“Eh, you are sure?” he answered, slipping a heavy cartridge into the rifle barrel of his gun. “A man who runs like that?”
The man was certainly running with remarkable speed. Tall, almost gigantic in height, and dressed in some sort of light-colored stuff which clung to his spare figure like a suit of tights, he covered the ground with long, effortless strides reminiscent of a hound upon the trail. There was something oddly furtive in his manner, too, for he did not keep to the center of the road, but dodged in a sort of zigzag, swerving now right, now left, keeping to the shadows as much as possible and running in such manner that only for the briefest intervals was he in direct line with us without some bush or tree-trunk intervening.
De Grandin nursed the forestock of his gun in the crook of his left elbow, his narrowed eyes intent upon the runner.
“When he comes within fifty yards I shall fire,” he told me softly. “Perhaps I should shoot now, but—”
“Good heavens, man; that’s murder!” I expostulated. “If—”
“Be still!” he told me in a low, sharp whisper. “I know what I am doing.”
The almost nighttime darkness of the dense pine woods through which we drove was thinning rapidly, and as we neared the open land the figure in our wake seemed to redouble its efforts. Now it no longer skulked along the edges of the road, but sprinted boldly down the center of the trail, arms flailing wildly, hands outstretched as though to grasp the rear of our car.
Amazingly the fellow ran. We were going at a pace exceeding forty miles an hour, but this long, thin woodsman seemed to be outdistancing us with ease. As we neared the margin of the wood and came into the dappled lights and shadows of the sunset, he put on a final burst of speed and rushed forward like a whirlwind, his feet scarce seeming to touch the ground.
Calmly, deliberately, de Grandin raised his gun and sighted down its gleaming blue-steel barrels.
“No!” I cried, striking the muzzle upward as he squeezed the trigger. “You can’t do that, de Grandin; it’s murder!”
My gesture was in time to spoil his aim, but not in time to stop the shot. With a roar the gun went off and I saw a tree-limb crack and hurtle downward as the heavy bullet sheared it off. And, as the shot reverberated through the autumn air, drowning the rattling of our rushing flivver, the figure in our wake dissolved. Astonishingly, inexplicably, but utterly, it vanished in the twinkling of an eye, gone completely—and as instantly—as a soap-bubble punctured with a pin.
The screeching grind of tortured brakes succeeded, and our car bumped to a stop within a dozen feet. “D-did you shoot?” our driver asked tremulously. Her fair and sunburned face had gone absolutely corpse-gray with terror, making the golden freckles stand out with greater prominence, and her lips were blue and cyanotic.
“Yes, Mademoiselle, I shot,” de Grandin answered in a low and even voice. “I shot, and had it not been for my kind and empty-headed friend, I should have scored a hit.” He paused; then, lower still, he added: “And now one understands why you were in a hurry, Mademoiselle.”
“Th-then, you saw—you saw—” she began through trembling lips, plucked feverishly at the steering-wheel with fear-numbed fingers for a moment, then, with a little, choking, gasping moan, slumped forward in her seat, unconscious.
“Parbleu, now one can sympathize with that Monsieur Crusoe,” the little Frenchman murmured as he looked upon the fainting girl. “Here we are, a dozen miles from anywhere, with most unpleasant neighbors all about, and none to show us to our destination.” Matter-of-factly he fell to chafing the girl’s wrists, slapping her cheeks softly from time to time, massaging her brow with deft, practised fingers.
“Ah, so, you are better now, n’est-ce-pas?” he asked as her eyelids fluttered upward. “You can show us where to go if my friend will drive the car?”
“Oh, I can drive all right, I think,” she answered shakily, “but I’d be glad if you would sit by me.”
Less speedily, but still traveling at a rate which seemed to me considerably in excess of that which our decrepit car could make with safety, we took up our journey, dipping into desolate, uninhabited valleys, mounting rocky elevations, finally skirting an extensive growth of evergreens and turning down a narrow, tree-lined lane until we reached the Sutter lodge, a squat, substantial log house with puncheon doors and a wide chimney of field stone. The sun had sunk below the western hills and long, purple-gray shadows were reaching across the little clearing round the cabin as we came to halt before the door.
“How much?” de Grandin asked as he clambered from the car and began unloading our gear.
“Oh, two dollars,” said the girl as she slid down from the driving-seat and bent to lift a cowskin bag. “The bus would have brought you over for a dollar, but they’d have let you down at the foot of the lane, and you’d have had to lug your duffle up here. Besides—”
“Perfectly, Mademoiselle,” he interrupted, “we are not disposed to dicker over price. Here is five dollars, and you need not trouble to make change; neither is it necessary that you help us with our gear; we are quite content to handle it ourselves, and—”
“Oh, but I want to help you,” she broke in, staggering toward the cabin with the heavy bag. “Then, if there’s anything I can do to make you comfortable—” She broke off, puffing with exertion, set the bag down on the door-sill and hastened to the car for another burden.
Our traps stored safely in the cabin, we turned once more to bid our guide adieu, but she shook her head. “It’s likely to be cold tonight,” she told us. “This fall weather’s right deceptive after dark. Better let me bring some wood in, and then you’ll be needing water for your coffee and washing in the morning. So—”
“No, Mademoiselle, you need not do it,” Jules de Grandin protested as she came in with an armful of cut wood. “We are able-bodied men, and if we find ourselves in need of wood or water we can—mordieu!”
Somewhere, faint and far-off seeming, but growing in intensity till it seemed to make our very eardrums ache, there rose the quavering, mournful howling of a dog, such a slowly rising and diminishing lament as hounds are wont to make at night when baying at the moon—or when bemoaning death in the family of their master. And, like an echo of the canine yowling, almost like an orchestrated part of some infernal symphony, there came from very near a little squeaking, skirking noise, like the squealing of a hollow rubber toy or the gibbering of an angry monkey. Not one small voice, but half a dozen, ten, a hundred of the chattering things seemed passing through the woodland at the clearing’s edge, marching in a sort of disorderly array, hurrying, tumbling, rushing toward some rendezvous, and gabbling as they went.
The firewood clattered to the cabin door, and once again the girl’s tanned face went pasty-gray.
“Mister,” she told de Grandin solemnly, “this is no place to leave your house o’ nights, for wood or water or anything else.”
The little Frenchman tweaked
the needle-points of his mustache as he regarded her. Then: “One understands, Mademoiselle—in part, at least,” he answered. “We thank you for your kindness, but it is growing late; soon it will be dark. I do not think we need detain you longer.”
Slowly the girl walked toward the door, swung back the sturdy rough-hewn panels, and gazed into the night. The sun had sunk and deep-blue darkness spread across the hills and woods; here and there an early star winked down, but there was no hint of other light, for the moon was at the dark. A moment she stood thus upon the sill, then, seeming to take sudden resolution, slammed the door and turned to face us, jaw squared, but eyes suffused with hot tears of embarrassment.
“I can’t,” she announced; then, as de Grandin raised his brows interrogatively: “I’m afraid—scared to go out there. Will—will you let me spend the night here?”
“Here?” the Frenchman echoed.
“Yes, sir; here. I—I daren’t go out there among those gibbering things. I can’t. I can’t; I can’t!”
De Grandin laughed delightedly. “Morbleu, but prudery dies hard in you Americans, Mademoiselle,” he chuckled, “despite your boasted modernism and emancipation. No matter, you have asked our hospitality, and you shall have it. You did not really think that we would let you go among those—those whatever-they-may-bes, I hope? But no. Here you shall stay till daylight makes your going safe, and when you have eaten and rested you shall tell us all you know of this strange business of the monkey. Yes, of course.”
As he knelt to light the fire he threw me a delighted wink. “When that so kind Monsieur Sutter invited us to use his lodge for hunting we little suspected what game we were to hunt, n’est-ce-pas?” he asked.
COFFEE, FRIED BACON, PANCAKES and a tin of preserved peaches constituted dinner. De Grandin and I ate with the healthy appetite of tired men, but our guest was positively ravenous, passing her plate for replenishment again and again. At last, when we had filled the seemingly bottomless void within her and I had set my pipe aglow while she and Jules de Grandin lighted cigarettes, the little Frenchman prompted. “And now, Mademoiselle?”
A Rival from the Grave Page 11
