by Cave, Hugh
"We walk the rest."
Two of the three men were State Troopers. The third was Lieutenant Hurley. Hurley said, scowling:
"This all sounds fishy to me, Simms. Damned fishy. If anyone except you—" He pulled a watch from his pocket, peered at it in the light of the headlamps, and thrust it back again irritably. "Ten-twenty. Hell of a time to be chasing ghosts."
"Where we're going," Simms shrugged, "any time is a hell of a time. You'll find that out."
The three men followed him down the road, Hurley walking with short, quick strides to catch up to him. Simms was silent, then. The road was dark, sinister. Simms' thoughts centered on the four-legged devils which had come within an ace of sinking their fangs into him, not too long ago, along this same shadowed aisle.
He made fists of his hands, strode rapidly down the crusted ridge between deep ruts of snow. Not until he reached the last bend in the road, beyond which lay the gate to Sanderson's estate, did he stop.
"Now what?" Hurley growled.
"I told you. I don't know."
"Well, what's the program? Do we barge into this guy's house and demand admission to that cellar room of his or do we hang fire and wait for nothing to happen?"
Simms scowled, pushed his hat-brim off his forehead, and massaged his chin with a lean hand. He was still thinking of the dogs, and of Oleg, the dog-keeper and, for no reason at all, of the dark-eyed, good-looking girl who had been generous enough to warn him of the danger lurking in that cellar hideout.
"I'm going to get a look inside that room," he shrugged. "The rest of you stick around, watch the house. If I don't come out—"
Hurley's reply was a facetious grin, signifying gentle disbelief of the story Simms had told back at the State Police barracks. Ignoring the grin, Simms said quietly:
"Don't make any mistake, mister; this is no jacked-up house party. If it were as easy as that, we'd be banging on the front door with a search warrant. But it's not that kind of a place."
He turned, paced slowly down the road, leaving Hurley and the two troopers to stare after him. A moment later he rounded the bend, stood staring. Before him lay the Sanderson gate, and beyond that, glowing spectral white in moonlight, the smooth snow-carpeted lawn which nurtured Sanderson's house of mystery.
The place looked innocent enough; but even at that moment, as Simms stood staring, strange things were occurring within those looming walls. Even as Simms paced slowly forward to the gate, a door in the upstairs corridor of the big house inched open with equal slowness.
The corridor was a shadowed church-aisle, leading into and out of darkness. The pale yellow glow, emanating from the opening doorway, silhouetted the slender, feminine form of the dark-eyed girl who was even then in Simms' thoughts. Quietly she closed the door behind her and tiptoed down the passage to the head of the stairs.
The girl's eyes were wide, her lips tight-pressed in a face empty of color. Her outstretched hand, as she descended the stairs, made a soft whispering sound on the bannister. At the foot of the wide staircase she stood listening, staring intently at a thin sliver of light which came from under the closed door of Sanderson's study.
Warily she tiptoed along the thick carpet, not once taking her gaze from the door as she stole past it. Safely beyond, she relaxed a little, allowed a slow sigh of relief to escape her lips. A moment later she had paced across the unlighted kitchen, in the rear of the house, and was opening the door which led to the cellar.
There was no light to guide her. Softly she closed the door behind her, descended the steep steps to the game-room, and moved swiftly toward the locked door of Sanderson's laboratory. Turning to look furtively around her, to make sure that she was unobserved, she drew a small steel instrument from its hiding-place in her dress, and centered her attention on the lock.
Cold perspiration marred the girl's forehead then. After every few moments she ceased her efforts, straightened, stood listening, as if fearful of being discovered. When finally the lock clicked under the manipulations of the steel jimmy in her fingers, and she reached out a trembling hand to push the door open, she was breathing quickly through parted lips, and her face was chalk-colored.
Timidly she stepped over the threshold, peered into the impregnable dark of the chamber beyond. A soft whisper left her mouth then.
"Max! Where are you?"
There was no answer until she spoke the name twice. Then a low, throaty sound, muffled so as to be almost inaudible, emanated from a corner of the room before her. Again the girl stood rigid, fearful of hearing other sounds from the rear. Cautiously she struck a match, held the guarded flame high.
The man named Max Ferris lay bound and gagged on the floor, his feet and hands roped together, his head resting wearily against the wall.
Claire Evans moved forward swiftly, dropping the match as it burned her fingers. In darkness again she bent above Ferris' bound body, working desperately to free him. No sooner had the gag come loose than Ferris licked his lips, expectorated vehemently, and said warmly:
"I was countin' on you, pal. God, this place gives me the jitters!"
"Be quiet," she told him curtly.
"Huh?"
"Quiet! Sanderson hasn't gone to bed. He's in his study, upstairs. If he hears us—"
Ferris' answer was a vicious growl, signifying his hate of the man who had made him a prisoner. He was silent until the girl succeeded in freeing his hands; then, thrusting her aside, he bent forward and loosened his legs, then stood up, shifting back and forth as if suffering from pins-and-needles. Deliberately he rubbed his legs to bring back the circulation.
"Does Sanderson know that you and I know each other?"
"No," Claire Evans said. "No, he doesn't."
"That's a break. I thought he'd seen us together, the way that one-eyed foreigner landed on me right after you left me. How do I get out of here, pal?"
She put a hand on his arm, drew him toward the door. Again she cautioned him to silence, then led him through the furnace-room to the narrow window through which Mark Simms, of the State Police, had entered on that other occasion. Faint moonlight blurred the dirty panes, revealing the aperture. The girl said anxiously:
"Can you make it?"
Ferris scowled, nodded. His hand sought the girl's shoulder.
"Listen. Are you headin' for trouble on account of this? Is he goin' to know you did it?"
"I—I don't think so. I'll get back upstairs to my own room and go to bed. He won't see me. He'll think you got loose yourself Max."
"Okay. Thanks, pal. Give me a hand up."
She held her hands for him, wincing as the hard sole of his shoe came in contact with the soft flesh of her palms. A gasp escaped her lips as she straightened, adding an impetus to his lunge for the window-sill. He hung by one hooked arm, pushed the window up with his free fingers. Next moment he was over the sill. The window dropped with a soft thud. The girl was alone.
She stood rigid, realizing the peril of her own position. Once again she listened intently for the sounds she expected to come from above, and suppressed a sob of relief when the sounds failed to materialize. Quickly she moved to the stairs, ascended to the door at the top, thrust it open, slipped into the unlighted kitchen. Clenching her hands to keep them from trembling, she paced along the corridor toward the central staircase.
A light still glowed beneath the closed door of Sanderson's study. The girl hesitated, moved past with cat-like steps. Her outstretched hand closed gratefully over the bannister. Silently she began to ascend.
Below her, the door of Sanderson's study opened. A calm, deliberate voice stopped the girl's ascent.
"I should like to speak to you, Miss Evans."
Claire Evans turned slowly, every trace of color gone from her face. Her hand, clutching the bannister, was the only thing that steadied her as she peered down, with wide eyes, at Sanderson's motionless form. Sluggishly she retraced her steps, as if descending into the arms of some waiting monster, whose gaze hypnotized her.
"What are you doing downstairs at this hour?"
"Is—is it late?" she faltered.
"That is not the point. You know my orders in regard to prowling about the house after having retired."
The girl took a step backward, said anxiously: "I—I'm sorry. I was hungry. I went to the kitchen—"
"You went to the kitchen?"
"Yes."
Sanderson's eyes narrowed under beetling brows. Narrowed abruptly, meaningfully. His hand shot out, clamped over the girl's arm. Bitterly he dragged her toward him.
"Did you by any chance go beyond the kitchen?" he rasped thickly.
"No, no! I—"
"Don't lie to me! It is too easy to discover the truth!"
He glared at her vehemently. She stared back into those convulsed features, and shuddered. Resistance was futile. Sanderson's fingers dug cruelly into her arm, pulling her along the corridor. A liquid sob welled from the girl's lips as she realized his intent and anticipated the fury which would be turned upon her, full force, when he discovered what she had done.
The anticipation was less than the reality. Sanderson, a moment later, stood staring with wide eyes at the open door of the downstairs laboratory, and began slowly to tremble with savage rage. His face whitened, turned scarlet. He took a step forward, peered at the corner of the room where the prisoner had been confined, and then, with ominous slowness, turned to confront the girl in his grasp.
"So you found a way to release him."
The words were thick, guttural, all the more threatening because they were spoken with vicious deliberation. Claire Evans shrank from them, sought frantically to free herself. The effort served only to increase Sanderson's anger. Fiercely he dragged her over the threshold, hurled her against the far wall. With one clenched hand he held her in front of him, with the other he pressed the concealed spring which operated the hidden door beside her.
The girl stared then, stared with widening eyes at sight of the upright iron bars revealed by the sliding panels. She beat desperately at the hand that held her, as Sanderson produced keys and pushed the iron grill open. Then she was flung forward, and stumbled across the threshold into the lightless prison-cell beyond.
The grill clicked shut with a metallic rasp. Sanderson, standing close to it, glared through the bars and said savagely:
"I shall attend to you later, Miss Evans. Personally."
The sliding panels came together. Sanderson turned slowly, paced across the laboratory, reached mechanically for the light-switch near the door.
Then he stiffened, his hand froze on the switch. From the furnace-room, just beyond, came a sound which held him motionless.
Mark Simms, prowling warily along the outside of the high fence, sought a place of ingress where the gloom of overhanging trees might conceal him from the chance gaze of any members of Sanderson's household. Arriving at the spot where he had once before scaled the barrier, he took time to stare about him, making sure that he was unobserved.
His thoughts centered unpleasantly on Oleg, the dog-keeper, and on the blood-hungry devils who obeyed the one-eyed man's bidding. As silently as possible, and with every nerve alert, he hauled himself over the wooden barrier and dropped on the other side.
He took two slow steps forward and stopped abruptly, stood motionless. Ahead of him, something moved near the wall of the house. A shadow detached itself, stepped away from the cellar window. Simms scowled at sight of a short, thick-shouldered human shape, scowled even more intensely as the shape straightened, moved furtively across the moonlit lawn toward the gate.
Abruptly Simms fell back. His original intention had been to get into Sanderson's cellar hideout, by whatever method presented itself, and discover what the sinister chamber contained. Now he changed his mind, strode rapidly along the fence, keeping carefully in the shadows afforded by the barrier. If Sanderson's chamber of mystery had been important in itself, then this new development—this silent, skulking shape which had apparently come from the very room—was infinitely more important!
Nearing the gate, Simms hung back, waited for the thick-shouldered man to get there first. The man reached it, turned for a moment to peer back at the house, then pushed the gate open and strode into the road. Simms followed warily, fists clenched, lips tight.
This was not on the program. It puzzled him, put furrows of bewilderment in his forehead. Vaguely he wondered if the prowling shape ahead of him, apparently bent on escaping from Sanderson's house of evil, had any connection with the sounds of agony and torment which had emanated from the room in the cellar, not long ago.
There was but one way to find out. Cautiously Simms kept out of sight until the man ahead had rounded the bend in the road. Whatever happened then would be less likely to attract attention from Sanderson's house. It was safe, then, to close the gap.
Simms did so, silently and swiftly. He was almost upon the plodding shape before the man heard him. Abruptly the man stiffened, wheeled about. Simms' hand, plunging into a flapping coat pocket, jerked up again with a leveled revolver. The man stared into the menacing muzzle, made a muttering sound in his throat, stood motionless. Sullenly he said:
"Well, what's the idea?"
Simms studied him, took careful note of the square-jawed face, the compact body, the strong shoulders. It would not pay to take chances.
"Just where were you going, mister? And where from?"
"What?"
"You heard me."
"Yeah, I heard you, all right. And where I'm going is none of your damned business!"
"I think it is."
"Well, I think different. If you want any information, ask Sanderson!"
Simms advanced methodically, ran a hand over the man's clothing, frowned again when he found the man unarmed. Impatiently he pondered the best course of action, regretted the fact that he had advised Hurley and the others to leave him.
The problem solved itself. The thick-shouldered man stared suddenly down the road, made a sucking sound with his lips. Heavy footsteps crunched in the snow. Lieutenant Hurley's harsh voice said with welcome abruptness:
"What's going on here? Hey?"
"This guy," Simms said, "is something on Sanderson's list. He just crawled out of a window and made a get-away."
"Yeah? A get-away from what?"
"Ask him."
"You can ask all you damn well want to," the thick-shouldered man growled. "See what good it does you."
Hurley scowled, clamped a firm hand on the man's arm.
"You'll talk, mister, when we get you to Headquarters."
"You can't take me to Headquarters! I got nothin' to do with Sanderson's hell-house. I work for—"
"For what?"
"That's my business. The name's Max Ferris; that's all you need to know."
"We'll know more," Hurley shrugged, "in a little while. Okay with you, Simms?"
Simms nodded, stood on wide-spread legs as Hurley pushed Max Ferris down the road. A frown twisted Simms' lips. He mouthed the name over again. Ferris—Max Ferris. Somehow it was familiar, yet its significance eluded him. Still bewildered, he turned away.
Ferris had escaped from Sanderson's house through the cellar window. That window led indirectly to the room with the locked door. Somewhere there was a connection . . . .
Uneasiness gripped Simms as he again prowled along the fence. Scaling the barrier at the same point as before, he stood motionless with his back to it, peering ahead to where the big house loomed gaunt and mastodonic a hundred yards distant. Somehow, now, the house seemed more sinister than ever.
With every forward step he took, his uneasiness increased. Instinct urged him to greater speed, caution held him back. Sanderson's domain, for all its seeming innocence, had proved itself to be a home of shadowy menace.
A light gleamed in the cellar window now where no light had gleamed before. The wi
ndow itself was closed. Reaching it, Simms crouched, pressed his face close to the pane. No sounds came from the chamber within.
Warily he slid the window up in its grooves, lowered himself through the aperture. Once again his roving gaze encountered the Ping-Pong table, the rich furnishings of the game-room. On tiptoes he moved across the threshold into the furnace-room. Then he stopped, narrowed his eyes in bewilderment. The door of the mystery room was open.
6. Beneath the Cellar
Prowling forward on silent feet, Simms was unaware of the watching eyes behind him, unaware of the shadowed form which stood motionless near the huge oil-burner, following his every move with unblinking orbs. From the very beginning, when the window had first creaked open, Sanderson had crouched there waiting. Now his hands opened and closed twitchingly, his face was a mask of triumph.
Blind to impending peril, Simms stepped cautiously to the threshold of the laboratory, stood staring, bewildered more by the fact that the door was open than by the room's contents. A light glowed inside. His gaze encountered the white-topped table, the cases of instruments.
The table in particular, with its leather thongs obviously designed to hold a human patient in place, fascinated him. He frowned thoughtfully, pondering its significance. Such a table could have nothing to do with the practice of taxidermy. Its presence here meant that Sanderson was something more than a taxidermist.
Simms' hand went into his pocket, came out again holding his revolver in readiness. Had he turned, he might have seen the menacing shape which detached itself from the shadows of the furnace behind him and tiptoed forward on silent feet. But he did not turn. He moved slowly over the threshold, toward the table.
"If you are wise," a quiet voice said behind him, "you will stand quite still, Mr. Simms!"
Simms froze, stood rigid. Before he could turn, or even consider the advisability of turning, the voice said curtly:
"And you will drop that gun—immediately!"
