Barbara was very pale. There was a drawn look on Gray’s face. Even Muriel seemed badly frightened. I was amazed. It was almost as though that final destruction of the mere semblance of an arm long dead had frightened these women, and that when they were at a distance from the work I did. But I was myself conscious of an uplift of spirits, and I smiled into the faces before me. But I did not immediately inform them of what I had found within that hollow fist.
“You’re safe?” cried Muriel.
“Safe? Of course. I assure you I am able to negotiate a little—”
“But why did you shout like that?” Gray demanded.
“I didn’t shout.”
I saw them exchange glances.
“What’s happened? What’s frightened you?” I demanded.
“Someone—or something—yelled like—like—” Gray began, stammeringly.
“I thought you were being . . . murdered,” Muriel said. Her face was paler than usual.
“No, it was a cry of triumph,” declared Barbara, and she smiled as she said that, evilly. And she put forth a hand and would have stroked my throat had I not darted back out of reach.
“I’m sure I didn’t make a sound,” I said. But then I began to consider that I had to calm two badly frightened women. Also, it was barely possible, I might have cried out unconsciously upon discovering the paper in the dead man’s fist. “But perhaps I did, after all,” I said. “For I’ve discovered something. Come up to the library and we’ll have a look at it.”
The writing was not wholly effaced. It was faded, but with a reading glass I made out enough of it to guess at the rest. I cannot say, however, that it much enlightened either Gray or me upon any of the mysteries still surrounding us. It was as follows:
“My dear son: Before I go whence I shall not return, I feel I must warn you against a woman who is capable of doing [here was a single word of which I could not be sure. I took it to be “great”] mischief. The bon[d—?]s which I have concealed in the old iron place were [taken—?] from her. Give them to her when the time is ripe. She is, as you very well know, A ”
That was all. That was entirely all. The letter ended in the middle of the sheet of paper. No dash followed that “A” as if the writer had wished to abbreviate a name. The writing broke off as abruptly as though the man who had penned it had been violently interrupted. Had he then crumpled it, angrily, or fearfully, into a wad? And had he carried it, thus crushed in his hand, throughout the last of those mad scenes which ended in his death? If he had not done just that, how had I found it where I had found it? I imagined that here was one small mystery which might remain forever unsolved.
Then there was again that phrase used by Alice Hobbs, “the old iron place.” I had supposed, and Gray had agreed with me, that Alice had meant the loose end piece of that iron pipe. But if the writer of this unfinished letter, and it must have been Ormond’s father, since it was plainly a man’s writing and began with “My dear son,” had meant that pipe, then the bonds he had concealed there must have been removed before Alice Hobbs had learned of the hiding of still others in the same place, or had herself hidden others there.
Yet stay! Why might not the two groups of bonds have been one and the same? Why might not the hundred thousand Ormond was said to have given to Agnes have been those left in “the old iron place” by his dead father? For surely that “A” had been intended for Agnes.
No, not so, for Agnes had become Ormond’s wife. Had she become his wife after being perhaps the mistress of the father? Here was a further mystery. Barbara had declared that Agnes had not, in Barbara’s belief, sought marriage with Ormond. Had the supposed wrong he had done her been really a wrong done by his father? Agnes had struck me as being a woman who had been, or might easily become, an adventuress. Nevertheless, if my present half-formed surmise were a correct one, then her reluctance to marry the son might be in some part explained.
Still, “A” might have stood for Alice. Why not? Alice Hobbs was certainly in some way involved in this matter of the bonds. Alice had made use of the same phrase as had the elder Ormes in speaking of the hiding place. Alice had slain Agnes Ormes and had penned a note alleging that the murdered woman had done her a wrong. Alice it had been, at the last, who had succumbed to the hideous madness of lycanthropy, which had afflicted the father of the Ormeses; and if there were any basis of truth in the old tales of the werewolves, then Alice might have contracted the disease from having been bitten. . . . I did not care to pursue that reasoning further. Yet why might not that “A” have been intended for Alice Hobbs?
Of course, it might have been meant for a lower case “a” and not a capital letter. I did not believe this to be the case, however. The writer was evidently an educated person. He would have been careful of such things. And it was very plainly a large “A”, even though a small one had been meant.
These were all mysteries to which I could find no answer. For all I could see, they were mysteries which might never be solved, if, indeed, there were anything of good to be gained by solving them. But there was one mystery which made it imperative that a further search be made in that house, and that was the hiding place of the bonds which had been put aside for “A”. I was coming to think that “the old iron place” was not, after all, the iron pipe. I represented this to the others. Muriel was not, or pretended not to be, interested. Gray agreed with me. It was only Barbara who protested against a further search, declaring that the money did not exist. She even went so far as to say that, even if it should be found, it might bear a curse against the finder. I was about to offer some argument against this superstitious aversion. I suppose I must have smiled in scorn of it. At any rate, Barbara abruptly changed her mind. She faced me defiantly.
“Very well,” she said, calmly enough, though her eyes flashed in her pale face, “I’ll show you where it is. I know. But I’m not to be blamed for what may happen.”
“We’ll try to prevent anything happening,” I said, fatuously enough, as I admit.
“You? How can you prevent it? But come!”
Without another word she turned and walked toward the secret passage and the secret stairs that led to the little room in which hung the picture of her dead brother. The rest of us followed, no one speaking. Arrived in the room, I stepped toward the only window and threw up the shade. It had been drawn so long that when I moved it a thick cloud of dust descended from the roller. I turned away, toward Barbara. She was again facing me.
“Remove the portrait,” she commanded.
I glanced keenly into her eyes. They were alight with a look which I had come to know only too well since I had lived at Ormesby. For a second I thought of endeavoring to persuade her to desist; I had a notion that I myself might come here later and remove the portrait, since there must be a wall safe concealed behind it. But then I saw that the woman was determined. Matters had gone too far to draw back. I verily believe that I could have stopped her only by exerting my strength against her and forcibly carrying her out of the room. She swayed for a moment on her feet. I both feared and hoped that her resolve was broken and that her strength would fail. But she mastered her emotion swiftly, drew herself to her full height, stretched out her arm and pointed toward the picture.
“Take it down!” she ordered, regally.
I did so. After all, I could see no harm in doing it. I stepped close in front of the thing, grasped it firmly by the frame on both sides, lifted it slightly, so the cords by which it was suspended were freed of their hooks—then almost dropped it! For I could have sworn that a foul and sickening odor of breath came from the vicinity of the painted mouth! More than that, I felt a movement of air against my face, as though the portrait had exhaled forcibly against me!
But I mastered my fright. How far this mastery was due to pride before the women present, I do not know. Perhaps it was altogether due to them. Perhaps, h
ad I been alone in the chamber, I might have left the thing undisturbed, finding some excuse for leaving the room. As it was, I again took hold of the frame, this time lifting the picture from the wall. Then I turned and set it down against that wall opposite the single window. And I was careful to turn the painted face to the wall, so that those baleful eyes should not look on at what we did there.
Sunk perhaps an inch in the plaster of the wall behind the picture, I had seen a small iron or steel door. It was the door of a common kind of wall safe, a bit old-fashioned, no doubt, but still in use in houses fifty years or more of age. There was a steel handle, and in the middle of the door was a single knob. Evidently Barbara knew what the combination was, for she was spinning the knob before I had quite completed my task of placing the painting out of the way.
“I never knew that thing was there,” murmured Gray.
Barbara must have heard her. “There are a number of things you don’t know, my dear,” she said, her voice brittle and hard. “I’m going to show you some of them, and to tell you others.”
She continued spinning the knob, though more carefully now. I remember wondering whether she actually knew the combination, or was merely carrying through some silly bluff. Maybe she would abandon the safe, declaring it to be out of order and only to be opened with a bar or a cutting torch. Perhaps she would assert that she had forgotten the figures. But then I distinctly heard a tiny metallic click, as of tumblers falling. Barbara left off turning the knob. She wheeled and faced us.
“Now I’ll tell you things,” she said.
She was deathly pale. Her face, drawn with an inward emotion, looked far older than I had even seen it look. But she did not falter, nor did her dry and brittle voice tremble.
“When I open that door, I die,” she told us. “You don’t believe it? But I know that it will happen. My brother said so, years ago. He told me that some day I’d open it, and that then I should join him. Now I will open it.”
I may have made a slight movement toward her. I do not now remember. She went on:
“There aren’t any bonds in that safe. There are bones there, however. That’s what the note said—“bones.” They are the bones of a baby. My brother was the father of it. That’s why Ormond insisted on marrying Agnes. He thought it was Agnes’s baby, by his own father. But he was mistaken. The baby was not hers. But the blood of that infant . . . can any of you guess what happened to that . . . blood?”
She glared at us, seeming to be seeing all of us at once. My own blood ran cold. I felt sweat breaking out on my face. What monster from the primordial void had lurked all these years in this woman’s soul to be now having his will of her?
“You don’t believe in werewolves. You’re all very modern, aren’t you? You know so very much! But let me tell you that my brother is here . . . now . . . in this room, looking at all of you. He’s alive . . . as much as any of you. You, Seaverns, have thought—for I know —that you’ve been seeing ghosts. I tell you that my brother walks in the flesh, that he breathes, he lives, he still loves!”
And I, God help me, had I not smelled the breath, the fetid breath, of the monster but a few minutes before?
Barbara’s voice fell to a low register, almost as low as that of Grayce.
“My brother and I are one and indivisible; where I am, there he is also.” It shot through my brain that I had seen the spectre of the elder Ormes only when Barbara must have been about some of her fiendish business. “Now he calls to me, and I go to him. It wasn’t Grayce who killed that fool Agnes. I did it. It wasn’t Alice Hobbs. I taught her to say that. I made her say that. But it was I who killed the woman. Now I am tired of all this. I—do you hear?—I caused Hobbs to run that car off the road, because it was I who sunk my teeth into his throat, even though Grayce may have seemed to be doing it for me. You, Seaverns, you are mine. I’ve already marked you. You shall never escape me. I’ll follow you wherever you go. You can’t go so far, you can’t hide so securely, that I shan’t find you. And you others, too. Some day . . . some day . . .”
She broke off. I stood rooted to the floor with horror and with fear. I licked my lips, the tongue seeming dry and swollen as I thrust it forth. I managed to glance at Gray and Muriel. They both seemed rooted to the ground. Neither spoke, neither seemed capable of speaking. Barbara laughed suddenly. It was not a pleasant laugh. I should not like to hear the like of it again.
“And now I’m going. I’ll not say good-bye to you. I’ll see each of you again . . . perhaps . . . tonight!”
Before I could have stopped her, she whirled and wrenched open the door of the safe. There was a deafening report. I was hurled backward by the shock of a blinding flash and a heavy cloud of smoke. When I recovered some use of my muscles, no more than a second later, I saw that the woman had half turned from the wall and was facing me. Her little hand had gone to her breast. Through the delicate fingers of that hand trickled a thin bright stream of blood. And in the next instant, with what was unquestionably a happy, triumphal smile, she fell forward onto her face. When I reached her side, she was already a corpse. That is . . . if . . . if . . . God grant she had not told the truth!
And then, and I am as certain of it today as I was in that moment, there rang through the house such a shout—or yell—or whooping scream—as I had never heard, and as I pray I shall never hear again. Then all was as silent as the grave.
“That,” muttered Muriel, after a while, “is the second time I’ve heard that.”
XVIII
Once again there were policemen moving busily through the rooms and corridors at Ormesby. Once again a curious public stared from the road below and strove to penetrate into the grounds and house. Once again a dead body had gone in a car to the little undertaking rooms in Tiltown. Once again the flesh and bones of an Ormes were burned to ashes.
They were all gone, now, all save Gray. That old wolf, that elder Ormes, had succeeded in wiping out his clan as effectually as if he had shot each of them through the heart. Only Gray remained of the lot of them.
And it was curious, now, when nearly everything could be shown and nearly everything told, that the police should have exhibited so much suspicion of the three of us who were left alive. For days they questioned us, separately and collectively. They ransacked the premises. They did not fail to descend into the crypt and thence into the cistern, and they were curious as to why lime should have been thrown down there. Gray answered that the cistern had been damp and foul, and that the lime had been put in to sweeten the ground. That seemed plausible, yet they doubted, or appeared to doubt. They could not understand, they maintained, why I had removed bricks from the wall, hinting that I must have intended thrusting Barbara’s murdered body through the opening. Why had I constructed the ladder, which lay still in the hole? Why had I ventured down into the cistern? They measured my shoes and compared them with the footprints to be seen at the bottom of the pit, though I had not denied being down there. I protested that I had two reasons for my investigation, one, to learn why the cistern leaked, and, two, to search for treasure.
For it was at this point that I produced the note I had found in the dead hand. I pointed out that one word might be read either as “bonds” or “bones”, and that I had suspected it to be bonds, substantiating my theory by calling attention to the fact that we had actually found bonds to the amount of a hundred thousand dollars’ worth, which we had immediately turned over to Ormond’s creditors. Nothing of this could be denied, yet the police hesitated to accept my story. Why had I carried down a hammer into the cistern and then proceeded to smash the encrusted lime in one place and in no other?
There was certainly nothing to substantiate any theory that we, or any of us, had murdered Barbara Ormes, or even intended doing so. We were all fingerprinted, of course, but, equally of course, none of our fingerprints could be found on the heavy old pistol in the safe, or anywhere about t
he interior of the safe. I had had sense to see to that. After the first shock of dismay, following the explosion, the death of the woman, and the hideous shouting which had rung through the house, I had mastered my nerves enough to lead both Gray and Muriel immediately out of the room, so that nothing should be disturbed before the arrival of authorities, for whom I had at once telephoned. Only in this respect did I lie under questioning on the matter of the note: I said (and I had instructed the others to maintain) that Barbara herself had found the note among her brother’s forgotten papers. I explained that Ormond’s aunt, recognizing the ancient family nickname of the “old iron place” as meaning the safe which had been so long concealed behind the portrait that even Gray did not know of it, had led us thither, had worked the combination, and had been shot dead for her pains. But what had we thought to find in the safe? I stated that we sought treasure. But at this point Gray interrupted, hesitatingly and with a reluctance to speak which seemed natural enough, in view of what she was to tell.
“Mr. Seaverns tells the truth,” she said. “He was looking for bonds. I, too, thought, at first that the note meant that. Afterwards I began to be less sure.”
Q. “Why was that? What made you change your mind?”
A. “I thought the word looked something more like bones than bonds. And I remembered——”
Q. “Yes? Go on. Remembered what?”
A. “That my brother had had . . . before he married Agnes . . . that there had been some kind of . . . difficulty. I never knew, definitely, but I’ve always thought that——”
Q. “Well?”
A. “That she had had a . . . a baby . . . before . . .”
I saw the questioners exchange glances. If there had been a child born out of wedlock, it seemed plausible to them that it might have been slain and its body tucked away into the forgotten safe.
Fingers of Fear Page 24
