The A. Merritt Megapack

by Abraham Merritt

  “The taxi man had awakened. He touched my shoulder. He said: ‘Okay boss, get in. I ain’t got anybody.’ I said: ‘Sure you have.’ He flashed on the inside light. The cab was empty. He said: ‘I been waitin’ here an hour, boss, on a chance. Just dozin’. Nobody got in. You seen a shadow.’

  “I stepped into the cab and told him where to take me. We had gone a couple of blocks when I thought someone was sitting beside me. Close to me. I had been looking straight ahead and turned quickly. I caught a glimpse of something dark between me and the window. Then there was nothing, but I distinctly heard a faint rustling. Like a dry leaf being blown along a window in the night. Deliberately, I moved over to that side. We had gone another few blocks when I once more saw the movement at my left, and again there was a thin veil of deeper darkness between me and that window.

  “The outline was that of a human body. And again as it flicked out I heard the rustling. And in that instant, Alan, I knew.

  “I confess that I had a moment of pure panic. I called to the driver, about to tell him to take me back to the hospital. Then my nerve came back, and I told him to go ahead. I went into the house. I felt the shadow flitting with me as I entered. There was no one up. It companioned me, impalpable, incorporeal, glimpsed only by its movement, until I went to bed. It was with me through the night. I didn’t steep much—”

  He opened his eyes, and quickly shut them again.

  “I thought that like Dick’s shadow it would go with the dawn. This one didn’t. It was still there when I woke up. I waited until they’d all had breakfast—after all, Alan, a little playmate like that was nothing to introduce to the family, you know.” He squinted at me sardonically. “Also—it has other points of difference with Dick’s. I gather that Dahut rather favored him in that matter. I wouldn’t call my pal—cozy.”

  I asked: “It’s pretty bad then, Bill?”

  He said: “I can get along with it—unless it gets worse.”

  I looked at my watch. It was five o’clock. I said: “Bill, have you got de Keradel’s address?”

  Bill said: “Yes,” and gave it to me. I said: “Bill, don’t worry any more. I have an idea. Forget about the shadow as much as you can. If you haven’t anything important, go home and go to sleep. Or would you rather sleep here a bit?”

  He said: “I’d rather lie down here for a bit. The damned thing doesn’t seem to bother me so much here.”

  Bill lay down on the bed. I unfolded the Demoiselle’s last letter and read it again. I called up the telegraph company and found the nearest village to the de Keradel place. I got the telegraph office there on the ’phone and asked them if there was telephone communication with Dr. de Keradel. They said there was, but that it was a private wire. I said that was all right, I only wanted to dictate a telegram to the Demoiselle de Keradel. They asked—“the what?” I answered “Miss de Keradel.” I felt ironic amusement at that innocent “Miss.” They said they could take it.

  I dictated:

  Your souvenir most convincing, but embarrassing. Take it back and I surrender unconditionally. I’m at your command at any moment when assured this is done.

  I sat down and looked at Bill. He was asleep, but not very happily. I was wide awake but not very happy either. I loved Helen, and I wanted Helen. And I felt that what I had just done had lost Helen to me forever.

  The clock struck six. There was a ring on the telephone. It was long distance. The man to whom I had dictated the telegram spoke: “Miss de Keradel got the message okay Here’s one from her. It reads: ‘Souvenir withdrawn but returnable.’ You know what it means?”

  I answered: “Sure.” If he had expected me to go into details, he was disappointed. I hung up the ’phone.

  I went over to Bill. He was sleeping more quietly. I sat watching him. In half an hour he was breathing peacefully, his face untroubled. I gave him another hour and then awakened him.

  “Time to get up, Bill.”

  He sat up and looked at me blankly. He looked around the room, and went over to the window. He stood there a minute or two, then turned to me.

  “God, Alan! The shadow’s gone!”

  He said it like a man reprieved from death by torment.

  CHAPTER XII

  THE VANISHING PAUPERS

  Well, I’d expected results, but not quite so soon nor so complete. It gave me a fresh and disconcerting realization of Dahut’s powers—whether of remote control by suggestion, as the Christian Scientists term it, or witchcraft. Such control would in itself savor of witchcraft. But certainly something had happened as the result of my message; and by the relief Bill was showing I knew how much he had understated the burden of the shadow upon him.

  He looked at me, suspiciously. He asked: “What did you do to me while I was asleep?”

  “Not a thing,” I said.

  “What did you want with de Keradel’s address?”

  “Oh, just curiosity.”

  He said: “You’re a liar, Alan. If I’d been myself, I’d have asked that before I gave it to you. You’ve been up to something. Now what was it?”

  “Bill,” I said, “you’re goofy. We’ve both been goofy over this shadow stuff. You don’t even know you had one.”

  He said, grimly: “Oh, I don’t?” And I saw his hands clench.

  I said, glibly: “No, you don’t. You’ve been thinking too much about Dick and de Keradel’s ravings, and of what I told you of the Demoiselle’s pretty little hypnotic experiment on me. Your imagination has gotten infected. Me—I’ve gone back to hard-headed, safe-and-sane, scientific incredulity. There ain’t no shadow. The Demoiselle is one top-notch expert hypnotist and we’ve been letting her play us—that’s all.”

  He studied me for a moment: “You never were good at lying, Alan.”

  I laughed. I said: “Bill, I’ll tell you the truth. While you were asleep I tried counter-suggestion. Sent you deeper and deeper down until I got to the shadow—and wiped it out. Convinced your subconsciousness you’d never see it again. And you won’t.”

  He said, slowly: “You forget I tried that on Dick, and it didn’t work.”

  “I don’t give a damn about that,” I said. “It worked on you.”

  I hoped he’d believe me. It would help build up his resistance if the Demoiselle tried any more of her tricks on him. Not that I was any too sanguine. Bill was a psychiatrist of sorts, knew far more about the quirks and aberrations of the human mind than I did, and if he hadn’t been able to convince himself of the hallucinatory aspect of the shadows how could I expect to?

  Bill sat quietly for a minute or two, then sighed and shook his head: “That’s all you’re going to tell me, Alan?”

  “That’s all I can tell you, Bill. It’s all there is to tell.” He sighed again, then looked at his watch: “Good God, it’s seven o’clock!”

  I said: “How about staying here for dinner? Or are you busy tonight?”

  Bill brightened. “I’m not. But I’ll have to call up Lowell.” He took up the telephone. I said: “Wait a minute. Did you tell Lowell about my little party with the Demoiselle?”

  He said: “Yes. You don’t mind, do you? I thought it might help.”

  I said: “I’m glad you did. But did you tell Helen?”

  He hesitated: “Well—not everything.”

  I said, cheerfully: “Fine. She knows what you left out. And it saves me the time. Go ahead and ’phone.”

  I went downstairs to order dinner. I thought both of us were entitled to something extra. When I came back to the room Bill was quite excited. He said:

  “McCann is coming tonight to report. He’s found out something. He’ll be at Lowell’s about nine o’clock.”

  I said: “We’ll get dinner and go up. I want to meet McCann.”

  We had dinner. At nine o’clock we were at Lowell’s. Helen wasn’t there. She hadn’t known I was coming, nor had Lowell told her about McCann. She had gone to the theater. I was glad of that, and sorry. A little after nine McCann came in.

&nb
sp; I liked McCann from the start. He was a lanky, drawling Texan. He had been the underworld leader Ricori’s trusted bodyguard and handy man; a former cow-puncher; loyal, resourceful and utterly without fear. I had heard much of him when Bill had recounted the story of that incredible adventure of Lowell and Ricori with Mme. Mandilip, the doll-maker, whose lover this de Keradel had been. I had the feeling that McCann took the same instant liking to me. Briggs brought in decanters and glasses. Lowell went over and locked the door. We sat at the table, the four of us. McCann said to Lowell:

  “Well, Doc—I reckon we’re headed for about the same kind of round-up we was last time. Only mebbe a mite worse. I wish the boss was around…”

  Lowell explained to me: “McCann means Ricori—he’s in Italy. I think I told you.”

  I asked McCann: “How much do you know?” Lowell answered: “Everything that I know. I have the utmost faith in him, Dr. Caranac.”

  I said: “Fine.” McCann grinned at me. He said:

  “But the boss ain’t around, so I guess you’d better cable him you need some help, Doc. Ask him to cable these fellers—” he thrust a list of half a dozen names to Lowell “-an’ tell ’em he wants ’em to report to me an’ do what I say. An’ ask him to take the next ship over.”

  Lowell asked, uncertainly: “You think that is justified, McCann?”

  McCann said: “Yeah. I’d even go as far as to put in that cable that it’s a matter of life an’ death, an’ that the hag who made dolls was just a nursery figure compared to the people we’re up against. I’d send that cable right off, Doc. I’ll put my name to it, too.”

  Lowell asked again: “You’re sure, McCann?”

  McCann said: “We’re going to need the boss. I’m telling you, Doc.”

  Bill had been writing. He said: “How’s this?” He passed the paper to McCann. “You can put in the names of the people you want Ricori to cable.”

  McCann read:

  Ricori. Doll-maker menace renewed worse than before. Have urgent immediate need of you. Ask you return at once. In meantime cable (so-and-so) to report to McCann and follow implicitly his orders. Cable when can expect you.

  “That’s okay,” McCann said. “I guess the boss’ll read between the lines without the life and death part.”

  He filled in the missing names and handed it to Dr. Lowell. “I’d get it right off, Doc.”

  Lowell nodded and wrote an address on it. Bill ran the message off on the typewriter. Lowell unlocked the door and rang for Briggs; he came, and the message to Ricori was on its way.

  “I hope to God he gets it quick an’ comes,” said McCann, and poured himself a stiff drink. “An’ now,” he said, “I’ll begin at the beginning. Let me tell the whole thing my own way an’ if you got questions, ask them when I’m through.”

  He said to Bill: “After you give me the layout, I head for Rhode Island. I got a sort of hunch, so I take along a big roll of bills. Most of ’em is phoney but imposing in the herd. An’ I don’t aim to dispose of the mavericks—just display ’em. I see by the road map there’s a place called Beverly down that locality. It’s the nearest place on the map to this de Keradel ranch. On beyond, it’s empty country or big estates. So I head the car that way an’ give her the spur. I get there about dark. It’s a nice little village, old-fashioned, one street running down to the water, some stores, a movie. I see a shack with a sign Beverly House an’ figure to bed down there for the night. Far as I can see de Keradel an’ his gal have got to ride through here to get to the ranch, an’ mebbe they do some buying of their truck here. Anyway, I’m betting that there’s talk going ’round, an’ if so then the gent that runs this Beverly House knows all of it.

  “So I go in an’ there’s an old galoot who looks like a cross between a goat an’ a human question mark at the desk an’ I tell him I’m looking for shelter for the night an’ maybe a day or so longer. He asks if I’m a tourist, an’ I say no, an’ hesitate, an’ then say I got a piece of business on my mind. He pricks up his ears at that, an’ I say where I come from we put our stake on the table before we play, an’ pull out the roll. He waggles his ears at that, an’ after I’ve talked him down about two bits on the tariff he’s not only plumb curious but got quite a respect for me. Which is the impression I want.

  “I go in an’ have a darn good meal, and when I’m near through the old goat comes an’ asks me how things is an’ so on, an’ I tell him fine an’ to sit down. He does. We talk of this an’ that, an’ after awhile he gets probing what my business is, an’ we have some dam good applejack. I get confidential an’ tell him I been nursing cows for years down Texas way, an’ they’ve left me sitting mighty pretty. Tell him my grand-pap came from round these parts an’ I’ve got a yearning to get back.

  “He asks me grand-pap’s name an’ I tell him Partington, an’ what I’d hoped to do was buy back the old house, but I was too late learning it was on the market an’ I’d found some Frenchman called de Keradel had bought it from the estate an’ so I supposed that was out. But mebbe, I say, I could pick up a place near, or mebbe the Frenchman would sell me some of the land. Then I’d wait till mebbe this Frenchman got tired of it an’ I could pick the old house up cheap.”

  Bill explained to me: “This place de Keradel bought had belonged to the Partington family for generations. The last one died about four years ago. I told McCann all that. Go on, McCann.”

  “He listened to this with a queer look on his face, half-scared,” said McCann. “Then he opined my grand-pap must have been Eben Partington who went West after the Civil War, an’ I said I guessed so because pap’s name was Eben, an’ he seemed to hold quite a grudge against the family an’ never talked much about ’em, which was mainly what made me want to get hold of the old place. I said I thought buying it back an’ living in it might rile the ghosts of them who kicked grand-pap out.

  “Well, that was a shot in the dark, but it hit the mark. The old goat gets more talkative. He said I was a grandson of Eben all right, for the Partingtons never forgot a grudge. Then he said he didn’t think there was a chance of me getting the old place back because the Frenchman had spent a lot of money on it, but there was a place right close he knew of that I could get an’ if I’d put it in his hands he’d get me the lowest price for it. Also, he was sure I couldn’t buy in on the Partington ranch, an’ with that same queer look said he didn’t think I’d like it there if I could. An’ he kept staring at me as though he was trying to make up his mind about something.

  “I said I’d set my mind on the old homestead, which I always understood was a pretty fairish size for the East though mebbe not so sizeable out West. An’ I asked what was the improvements the Frenchman had put in, anyway. Well, the old goat got a map an’ showed me the layout. It’s a big chunk of land sticking out into the sea. There’s a narrow neck about a thousand feet across before the land spreads out. Outside that it spreads a fantail which I figure’s got two or three thousand acres in it.

  “He tells me the Frenchman’s built a twenty foot high wall across that thousand foot neck. There’s a gate in the middle. But nobody gets through it. Anything that goes from the village, including the mail, is took in by the guards. Foreigners, he says; funny little dark men who always have the money ready an’ say nothing no way. He says they take in a lot of supplies in their boat. Also, they got a truck, farm, an’ livestock—cattle an’ sheep an’ such, an’ bosses an’ a pack of big dogs. He says: ‘Nobody ain’t seen the dogs, except one man, an’ he—’

  “Then he shuts up all of a sudden as though he’s saying too much an’ that funny, scared look comes on his face. So I file that for reference but don’t press him none.

  “I ask him if nobody ain’t been inside an’ knows what it looks like, an’ he says: ‘Nobody round here has been except the man who—’ Then he shuts up again, so I figure he’s referring to the man who seen the dogs, an’ I get more curious about him.

  “I say that with all that coast line I don’t see why people can
’t slip in an’ look around a bit without anybody knowing. But he tells me it’s all rock, an’ only three places where you can land a boat, an’ that these three places are guarded like the gate. He looks at me suspicious an’ I say: ‘Oh, yes, now I remember, pap told me about that.’ An’ I’m afraid to ask much more on that line.

  “I ask casual what other improvements there are, and he says they made a big rockery. I ask what anybody wants making a rockery in a place where nature has been so prodigal with rocks. He takes another drink an’ says, this is a different kind of rockery, an’, he says, mebbe it ain’t a rockery but a cemetery, an’ that funny scared look comes on his face plainer than ever.

  “We have some more applejack an’ he tells me that his name is Ephraim Hopkins, an’ he goes on to say about a month after the Frenchman moves in there’s a couple of fishermen coming home when their kicker goes bad right off the point where the house stands. The Frenchman’s yacht has just dropped her anchor an’ she’s lightering a lot of men to the house landing. The fishermen drift awhile an’ while they’re doing it, they figure more’n a hundred men must been landed.

  “Well, he says, about a month after that a Beverly man named Jim Taylor is driving along at night when his headlights pick up a feller staggering along the road. This man gives a yelp when he sees the lights, an’ tries to run but he falls down. Taylor gets out an’ sees he ain’t got nothing on but his underclothes an’ a pouch tied round his neck. He’s fainted. Taylor picks him up an’ totes him to this Beverly House. They pour liquor in him an’ he comes to, but he’s an Eyetalian who don’t speak much English, an’ he acts like he’s scared half to death. All he wants is to get some clothes an’ get away. An’ he opens the pouch an’ shows money. They get out of him that he’s run off from this de Keradel place. Got to the water and swum till he figured he was past the wall, then come to land. He says he’s a stone-cutter an’ one of a big gang brought in on the boat. He says they’re putting up a big rockery there, cutting out stones an’ standing ’em up like giants’ tombstones all in circles around a house they’re building in the middle. Says these stones are twenty, thirty, feet high.”