Murgunstrumm and Others

by Cave, Hugh

  He dragged a deep breath now, preparatory to beginning a new line of attack.

  The telephone at his elbow interrupted him with a jangling clamor. He clawed the instrument toward him, jammed the receiver against his ear, and growled into the mouthpiece.

  Then he listened, and Max Ferris stared at him, watching his face go white. The phone trembled in Hurley's hand. He set it down, mumbled inaudible words, as if dazed. When he forked the receiver a moment later and stood up, his face was utterly empty of color. He paced slowly to the door, opened it, and spoke thickly to someone in the next room. Then he returned to the desk, gazed down at Ferris, and said heavily:

  "I guess you were right, mister. I guess I was a damned fool not to believe you in the first place. But, good God—"

  Ferris said anxiously: "What's happened? What's happened now?"

  "Murder. Worse."

  Uniformed troopers entered the room, stood staring as Hurley turned to confront them. Hurley said sluggishly, still dazed by the abruptness of what had happened:

  "There's been murder, down in the Portygee fishing-village. We'll have to go down there."

  The troopers gaped. Hurley's overtaxed nerves gave way abruptly.

  "For God's sake, get moving! Get the car!"

  His fists tightened then, and he stood trembling. He was still trembling when he climbed into the cruising-car, a moment later. Even in the glow of his cigarette, his face was still white and strained. He was thinking fearfully of the young man in evening clothes, and the young woman in a velvet dance-gown, both of whom had been slaughtered two nights ago on the lonely, storm-driven expanse of South Beach.

  The car, bearing Hurley, Max Ferris and two troopers, droned out of the yard, into the main highway. Ten minutes later, after roaring sullenly ahead at dangerous speed, drilling the dark with its twin headlights, it swung left into a narrow, macadam road where tall trees loomed on either side.

  The four men exchanged no idle comments as the winding road slipped under the headlight's glare. Each man was apparently concerned with his own thoughts. Hurley, in particular, had drawn into his shell and was sitting rigid, staring straight ahead of him. Not until the lights of the fishing-village winked ahead, through the damp darkness, did Hurley condescend to volunteer any information.

  "Kelly called me," he said then, "from a jerk gas-station somewhere near here. Said there'd been wholesale murder in the village. Kelly wouldn't exaggerate."

  The others nodded grimly. Shane Kelly, toughest trooper on the force, would not be apt to garnish the truth. If he said something was so, it was so.

  "All I got to say is," Hurley growled, "we been barking up the wrong tree. We been hanging around Sanderson's place, like damned fools, and now this happens."

  The car groaned from macadam into deep ruts of beach-sand, labored ahead for another hundred yards, and came to a stop in the center of the little village. Ramshackle huts, some of them showing lighted windows, loomed on either side. A thick-set man came striding forward from a nearby doorway.

  Hurley got out, stared around. The night air was cold, penetrating, with a salty smell of seaweed and beach-foam. A dull rumble of surf was audible from the darkness off to the left. Hurley breathed deeply, turned to face the man who was advancing toward him.

  An outstretched hand found Hurley's arm and clung there. Hurley peered into the man's face, said curtly:

  "All right, Kelly. Spill it. What happened?"

  "If I told you, you'd call me a liar," Kelly muttered. "Come and look for yourself."

  The others followed as Hurley strode after the trooper's six-foot figure. It occurred to Hurley to wonder, then, why the village was so quiet—why, if murder had been committed, the inhabitants were not swarming excitedly about the scene of the horror. The question was answered a moment later when Kelly, stopping in the doorway of one of the shanties, said grimly:

  "This place was a madhouse when I first got here. Queer people, these foreigners. I had to slap a couple of 'em down before they'd break up and clear out. Then they holed themselves up like rats, and locked their doors. That is, some of 'em did. The others—well, you'll find out."

  Hurley paced over the threshold, studied the layout with narrowed eyes. The place was a two-roomed hovel, musty, ill-smelling. Bare walls angled up from an uncarpeted floor. A home-made table, topped with oil-cloth and supporting dirty dishes, stood crookedly in the center of one room. In the other room, a four-poster bed ate up all the available space.

  Hurley stood motionless, stared down at a huddled shape on the floor near the legs of the table. The shape was covered with torn tarpaulin. A protruding arm and foot held Hurley's gaze, caused him to lean forward, licking his dry lips.

  "That's one of 'em," Kelly said huskily. "Pietro Gallini, the guy's name is. His wife is in the other room. It seems she was in bed, and he was eatin' his breakfast, gettin' ready to go out fishin'. They work queer hours, these foreigners."

  Hurley reached down, drew the tarpaulin aside. His breath caught in his throat. Max Ferris, standing close behind him, took a step backward and said "Christ!" One of the troopers turned away, clearing his throat noisily.

  The thing on the floor was a man, or had been. Its face, gaping up at the ceiling, was a death-mask of fear, with protruding, button-like eyes and lolling tongue. The throat, half covered by a blood-drenched shirt-collar, was torn from ear to ear, the interior jugular vein horribly exposed. From throat to groin, the man's body was a mangled, crimson mass of shapeless flesh.

  Only for a moment did Hurley stare. Then, shuddering violently, he dragged the tarpaulin back into place and stepped away. Slowly, as if steeling himself to the ordeal, he faced Kelly and said:

  "Let's see the other one."

  Kelly hung back, answered curtly: "She's in the other room, I told you."

  Hurley paced forward, seemed relieved when he reached the bed and found nothing lying there. Then his gaze dropped to the floor. He stiffened. Slowly, with trembling fingers, he stuck a cigarette in his lips and lit it, inhaling deeply. The woman had apparently been sleeping naked. She lay in the shadows of the bed, uncovered, her arms embracing the wooden bed-leg. Coarse black hair masked her face, her large body lay in a lake of carmine. Hurley took one long look at the pile of mutilated flesh, at the horrible thing which had been done to it, and recoiled abruptly. The cigarette hung limp in his lips. He made a growling sound in his throat as he stumbled across the threshold.

  The others stared at him. Pacing to the table, he leaned there with both hands gripping the table-top, said thickly:

  "All right, I've seen enough. Let's have the story."

  "That's all the story there is," Kelly shrugged, "except what happened afterwards."

  "Well, what happened afterwards?"

  "Plenty. There was a woman here named Maria Senko, swearing to God she saw the murderer when he came out of the shack. Said she knew what he was, and where he came from. Said he was one of Sanderson's creatures, whatever that means."

  Hurley's eyes narrowed. He said quietly: "Go ahead. Spill it."

  "Well, she had plenty of guts, this Senko woman. I guess all these foreigners have plenty. She did a lot of talkin', and persuaded some of the villagers to go with her to the Sanderson place, for a showdown. I couldn't stop 'em. They started off down the beach about twenty minutes before you got here."

  Hurley spat out the butt of his cigarette. "They've gone to Sanderson's place?"

  "Unless they get cold feet and change their minds."

  "And that's all you know? The Senko woman didn't say who murdered these two people?"

  "Only that one of Sanderson's creatures did it," Kelly shrugged. "If you can make any sense out of that—"

  Hurley straightened, glared at Max Ferris.

  "I guess that fits in with what you were telling me, all right. That makes me a thick-headed damned fool. If I'd listened to Simms—"

  He strode to the door, turned again, said sullenly to the troopers:

  "O
ne of you stay here. Kelly, you come with me. You too, Ferns. If the Senko woman had guts enough to break in on Sanderson, I guess we can do the same. And by God, if that house of his is the kind of house I think it is, I'll be apt to hand him over to the Senko woman and let her tear him apart!"

  8. Handshake with Death

  Henry Sanderson, standing at a window of his home, peered out across the snow-covered yard to where gaunt trees cast their shadows in pale moonlight. A clock, somewhere in the bowels of the big house, struck four times. Outside, the first traces of murky dawn were beginning to be visible.

  A scuffing sound at the end of the corridor caught Sanderson's attention. He turned sharply, then relaxed again as Oleg, the dog-keeper, came toward him along the dimly lighted passage.

  "The dogs have returned?" Sanderson demanded.

  Oleg nodded affirmatively, reaching a hand up to push shaggy hair out of his eyes. "They come back just now."

  "And the others?"

  "Only two come back yet. Antone, he is still out. So is the bad one."

  Sanderson scowled, turned again to the window. Presently he stiffened, put both hands on the sill and stared hard. Outside, a hunched shape appeared at the lower end of the yard, came slowly forward across the moonlit snow.

  The shape was a man, half naked, walking with head down and long arms dangling almost to the ground. At sight of him, Sanderson stepped back, said curtly to Oleg:

  "Come!"

  Striding down the corridor with Oleg behind him, he descended the stairs to the main portion of the house, and advanced quickly to the front door. A cruel, hungry smile twisted his lips as he drew the door open. Outside, the hunched shape was still moving across the yard toward the house.

  Sanderson stepped onto the veranda, stared at the man intently, and called out in a harsh voice:

  "Rennick! Here!"

  The man named Rennick stood motionless, then turned his head slowly, as if seeking the source of the command. Sluggishly he came forward, ascended the veranda steps, stopped again and peered dully at Sanderson. Clotted hair hung over his eyes. His expressionless face was a hideous gargoyle, smeared with blotches of red sticky stuff which was blood. His dangling hands were carmine.

  "I have something more for you, Rennick," Sanderson said quietly. "Something easy, right here in the house. Come with me."

  The man licked his lips, made a guttural sound in his throat. With the same sluggish movement, as if his body were somehow bloated and unwieldy, he followed Sanderson into the house and down the central corridor to the kitchen. Sanderson's hand touched the wall-switch which controlled the cellar lights, then came away again without turning it.

  "It will be more entertaining in the dark," he murmured.

  He opened the cellar door, motioned his strange companion forward. Slowly, with increasing eagerness, Rennick descended the wooden steps into the vault of darkness below. Sanderson followed warily, watching every move the man made, as if uncertain how much longer his orders would be obeyed. Oleg, the one-eyed man, hung back at an even greater distance.

  No lights burned in the cellar. The game-room, and the furnace-room beyond, were wells of gloom, except for the faint murky glow emanating from the narrow window high in the wall. At the foot of the stairs Rennick stopped, stared around him as if bewildered. Sanderson, pointing to the door of the laboratory, held forth a ring of keys and said softly:

  "Whatever you find in there is yours. All yours, Rennick. Two people are in there, and one—" Sanderson's lips curled significantly—"is a woman."

  Rennick's bloody fingers clawed the keys from Sanderson's hand. His gargoyle mouth opened, his tongue came out to lick his lips. He took a quick step forward. Then he stood quite still.

  Before him, a significant sound invaded the silence of the cellar. There was a dull, metallic click—the click of a lock yielding under pressure. The door of the laboratory creaked faintly as it was pushed open from within.

  Rennick stood rigid, glaring with avid eyes. A shadowy figure, barely visible in the darkness of the chamber, stepped through the widening aperture in front of him. A low, liquid growl came from Rennick's throat.

  The escaping prisoner stopped as if stabbed. Behind him a whispering voice, the voice of Claire Evans, said suddenly, anxiously:

  "Mark! What is it? What's wrong?"

  Mark Simms drew a long, deep breath and stepped backward. His mind, already weary from the nerve-racking suspense of the past hour, refused for a moment to focus on the new danger confronting him. He knew that the way to escape was barred, that the girl and he were no longer alone in the cellar. Beyond that he could not think.

  The past hour had taken its toll on him. Only after an eternity of trying had he succeeded in forcing the wedged key from its slot, to enable him to pick the lock of the prison-door. The constant threat of impending peril had sapped his strength. The curse of darkness had not helped.

  Now, reaching behind him to grip the girl's hand, he waited stiffly, grimly, for the materialization of this new menace. His fingers still clutched the sharp-pointed steel instrument with which he had opened the barrier. His very stiffness warned the girl to silence.

  The darkness itself was a menace, concealing the real danger which lurked within it. From somewhere in that well of gloom, hellishly close, came a sound of slow, throaty breathing. There was nothing else.

  Simms' heart hammered against his ribs, leaving him alternately hot and cold as he did the only thing possible: waited for the unseen assailant, or assailants, to take definite form. The girl beside him was trembling; he could feel the throb of her body. Yet she knew better than to cling to him, hindering his freedom of movement. She too, waited grimly for what was coming.

  It came, presently, in the form of slow, stealthy footsteps. The darkness itself, or a certain portion of it, seemed to advance sluggishly, threatening annihilation. Simms' fingers tightened around the slender shaft of the steel tool. He reached out a protecting arm, pushed the girl back over the threshold.

  Then, with uncanny quickness, the advancing shape took form. A snarling, half-naked hulk lunged forward, uttering obscene sounds which ate into the very core of Simms' soul. Outstretched hands, reeking of blood, made vicious contact with Simms' recoiling body.

  Hurled against the wall, Simms fought with fury born of desperation. What he was fighting, he could not be sure, even though the thing possessed human form. That vile stench of blood was nauseating, stifling; it came from the man's whole body, from the gusts of sour breath exploding from his lips. Writhing sideways, Simms slipped from the embrace of the monster's naked arms, lunged clear of the drooling mouth which sucked toward his throat.

  He went down then, hurled off balance by a sudden sweep of the fiend's arm. The snarling face descended toward him, even as he rolled frantically to avoid it. He stabbed upward with all his strength, driving the sharp-pointed steel tool into the center of the massive hulk that fell upon him.

  It was a battle to the death. From the doorway of the prison-room, the girl stared with wide eyes, horrified, unable to go to Simms' aid. At the far end of the chamber, two other shadowed forms watched the conflict with equal intentness, waiting for the inevitable conclusion.

  On the floor, Simms waged a grim, desperate battle for existence. Pinned down by the monster's heaving body, he strove wildly to free himself, drove blow after blow into the obscene mouth which sought to fasten in his throat. Hooked fingers, possessed of incredible strength, clawed at him, tearing the clothes from his chest and shoulders, raking the flesh beneath. Animal growls came gutturally from the fiend's lips, filling the entire chamber with their awesome significance.

  Simms groaned audibly. His strength was near gone, his body limp and lame from the agony it was absorbing. Only his will to live, to obtain revenge, gave him power enough to continue fighting.

  He heard something then, which quickened his dulled senses. Where the sound came from, he could not be sure, but its source was not in the cellar. Somewhere in the
upper portion of the house, or in the terrain outside the house, hell had broken loose. There was a muffled sound of gunfire, of men shouting harshly. A lurid scream jangled shrill and clear above other sounds which were unnamable . . .

  Simms heaved himself sideways, wrenching clear for an instant of the weight above him. A mad thought entered his mind, festered there, born of renewed hope. Throwing away the chance to regain his feet, he used up his moment of freedom by rolling blindly across the floor, until his twisting body thudded painfully against the solid base of the huge furnace. Then the monster was upon him again, clawing at him with increased ferocity.

  Simms staked everything, his own life and the life of the girl, on the next mad move. Fighting furiously one moment, he went suddenly limp the next, feigning defeat. A growl of triumph came from the foam-flecked lips which hung within a foot of his throat. The lips descended . . .

  Simms' hands shot up with pile-driver force. Savagely they slapped against the fiend's neck, locked there. With a final desperate lunge he twisted half erect, exerted all his strength in hurling the blood-smeared face away from him.

  There was a sickening, grinding impact as the monster's head crashed against the iron base of the furnace. Hot blood, spurting from the man's crushed skull, splashed over Simms' arms. Releasing his hold, Simms rocked backwards, groped to his knees.

  Those other sounds were still audible in all their significance. Something else was audible, too. Something closer, more important. Suggestive sounds came from the lesser darkness, near the foot of the cellar stairs. Staring, Simms made out two indistinct shapes, and thanked God that the increasing dawn-light from the narrow window had relieved him of his blindness.

  Those shapes were sinister, their presence lent a new significance to the attack of the monster. One of them, the one advancing slowly, cautiously toward him, obviously intent on finishing what the unnamed fiend had begun, was Oleg, the dog-keeper. The other was the proprietor of this house of horror, Sanderson himself.