by R. R. Ryan
Vin sat opposite this accuser, his face a mask.
“What especially do you wish—that I had let Mary see her monster and all these years suffer degradation?”
“She has to suffer it now.”
“Maybe not.”
“In what way can you prevent it?”
“That will be my concern.”
“No!”
“You intend to take action?”
“Yes.”
“Public action?”
“This is no occasion for private consciences.”
“Nor private loves?”
“What d’you mean?”
“I know you love Mary.”
“If so, then why have you not given her freedom?”
“Faith.”
To some extent this was unanswerable. Vin was not the man one associated with unconditional renunciations and his calm revelation of full knowledge of Terry’s love had nonplussed the latter.
“You could have let Faith choose,” he said, for him a little uncertainly.
“Faith belongs to me.” Terry felt there was something more meant in these four words than their mere apparent meaning. And was proved right by the other’s insane-sounding complement: “HE has come for her, but she belongs to me.”
Vin laughed. Terry glanced sharply at him. Surely all the ingredients of unreason were in this mirthless laugh. That was it. The man had come in looking insane. Undoubtedly he’d have to depend upon the police and not expect rational help from this at least dangerously disturbed creature, who, as if he had read Terry’s mind, leaned forward and said with extraordinary, quiet force:
“There is only one person on earth who can deal with—Govina.”
“You?”
“Yes.”
“I venture to suggest,” Terry said a little superciliously, “that the police will prove as effective.”
“Were they effective before?”
Again Terry felt silenced . . . But he was silenced by more than his companion’s words; by Vin’s manner, too. It grew increasingly strange. Maybe, Terry felt, the odd, elusive and deepening light produced the unpleasant features of Vin’s physical behaviour; yet it filled him with uneasiness . . . And, to disturb him more, a sense of uncanny danger crept into his mind. His flesh tingled. A curious chilliness flowed like a vapour over his body.
He gripped his chair and admonished his failing commonsense, cleared his throat and, a little stiltedly, said:
“They were unable to lay their hands on THE INEXPLICABLE . . .”
“Exactly, they will be unable to lay their hands on his successor.”
“Why?”
“Do you not know?”
“You mean all that rubbish Chambers frothed?”
Border’s eyes, Terry saw, grew bigger and brighter until it seemed to the watcher they would burst into flame.
Vin rose, looking unusually tall.
“You will be of some use in this crisis, Terry, when you realize that other, THE INEXPLICABLE, was more than just a man . . .”
Terry leaned abruptly forward. Border, he thought, was about to become impossible, make a fantastic claims that could only offend reason. He had not forgotten that Vin once told Aunt Charlotte and Mary that THE INEXPLICABLE was his father . . . And yet there was mystery concerning that monstrosity and Border; mystery of which Terry had always been aware.
“Border, what happened to THE INEXPLICABLE that night? You swore Mary didn’t see it . . . Then why were you so concerned about her child? Why did you tell Holly Chambers that it would be born a monster?”
Vin swept his hands wide in an extravagant gesture.
“If I told you, you would not believe me . . . But if I took you to, and showed you, its grave, you would believe I killed it?”
“You! . . . How?”
“I wish you’d been there, my sceptic . . . As Mary fell, I put my arm round its shoulders and led it away. It trusted me completely. And I had power over it that no other being walking this earth possessed.” He wrung his hands with a wail. Terry looked away from his companion’s contorted face—looked away in fear. “It trusted me—and I killed it.”
“How?”
“I shot it with my service revolver . . .” Suddenly Vin laughed. “Its bones lie not a thousand yards from where we sleep . . . There is a stake through its heart . . . I could show you that.”
For the moment, Terry felt his judgment wilt, his mind cloud and reason surrender to the other’s spell. The power behind Vin’s assertions, his complete indifference to confession did, in that instant, subjugate Terry’s norm and convince him that there might be something more than any man could explain in this unholy matter. At the same time he was more and more convinced that this was an affair beyond any individual jurisdiction, that despite all the horrible consequences there was less danger, less prospect of misery in telling his story to the police than in trying to circumvent both present danger and unpleasant publicity. One had to be faced and publicity seemed the inevitable choice.
Vin came closer. His voice changed from shrill to guttural and there was menace in his chuckle.
“You think me mad, don’t you?”
Notwithstanding his invincible courage, Terry shrank a little. In the other man’s appearance there was every justification for an affirmative.
“If I did,” Terry replied cautiously, “would it be wise to tell you so?”
But Vin ignored the question, seemed to have forgotten his own and began to walk rapidly about, to and fro, to and fro, at a speed that made his companion’s eyes ache.
“You and Mary have wondered at the change in me . . . Do you not understand; in killing HIM, I killed something in myself—a something needed to fight this—offspring . . .”
“You mean that you now have not the power to . . . deal with . . . Govina?”
The effect of this question on Vin was extraordinary. He became profoundly still, drew himself absolutely erect, so that he stood like some high priest inspired by his own beliefs, and the tortured look came back to his eyes.
“Yes, I have received back the power,” he said slowly, and as Terry in his early days had been wont to make his responses in church. Then he laughed quietly, triumphantly. “Yes, I have the power.”
The telephone shrilled sacrilegiously. Terry snatched at the receiver with relief that so prosaic a medium had entered into a scene beginning, he realized, to get him down. He said “Hello” and hardly knew his voice.
“Is that you, Terry?”
“Yes. Mary speaking?”
“Yes, Terry. You remember the old man we talked about at lunch?”
“Who said he was a reporter? Yes.”
“He’s been killed, Terry. Torn open . . . Just like before . . . You know, THE INEXPLICABLE . . . His body’s been found in Clayton’s Waste.”
She rang off. Why? The fact worried Terry . . . On a sudden impulse he moved to the window and looked down. The dark figure lurking in his doorway was still there.
CHAPTER IV
He turned to Vin, who now had shrunk into where the room was deeply shadowed; here he leaned against the wall; and, for the first time, Terry, as with Mary, was struck by a likeness in line, in attitude between this man and Govina; between this man and the shadowy lurker below.
“I’m going to the police, Border. That was Mary. Chambers has been torn open. Bang to the door when you leave.”
The absurdity of speaking in these rational terms to one whom he believed a madman and who, his own incredible tale accepted, would be as little to be trusted with the security of an office as something from a zoo!
But at that instant Terry was as preoccupied with the crisis at hand, with the need for prompt and bellicose action, as when first these two had met in their slimy, blood-lined trench.
“See Mary first,” Vin whispered softly.
Though he made no reply and though he did not consciously register the suggestion, Terry accepted it. Yes. See Mary first. Her sudden ringing off needed explana
tion.
He dashed out. Down . . .
Ah, the dark lurker . . . Attack? Well, it must be just met. Fortunately he was still active, still a terror with his fists, still fast on his feet, in either fight or flight, as ever.
But there was no dark lurker . . . He looked swiftly this way, that; no sign. P’raps he had imagined him. Some effect of shadow. His mind, just now, was inclined to turn solid things into shadows and shadows into solid things.
Strange that Mary should have rung off so abruptly. He’d be full of fear now until this business was not only settled but committed to the past.
He turned right. Came to the tram stop. No tram and a long queue waiting. He’d walk, or, rather, run. Left, left—straight ahead into his own long, at first light, then dim, road. When almost at his destination, Terry paused. He had an impression of being accompanied and paused to look, to listen. No one. Nothing. No sound. Not a soul in view. Quite, quite alone.
He turned and continued.
Something sprang and struck. Claws ripped his throat, caught in his breast-clothes and rent them to the waist, penetrating into the abdomen. The moving shadow growled, drew back the claws to strike again; but another hand touched its shoulder and a strange word floated on the air.
~ ~ ~ ~ ~
Mary had heard the news in the tram. A stout woman had told the conductor.
“I saw him,” she said. “All ripped up, pieces lying about. And the blood . . .”
Mary leaned forward.
“Who?” she breathed, surprised at her own intrusiveness, since, she was by habit reticent.
“An old man.”
“A local man?”
“I think not. He was a very tall, thin, white-haired old man, like a gipsy or a foreigner . . . It was terrible . . . As if some animal had attacked him . . .”
“Then they don’t know who or what attacked him?”
“No.”
“I see.”
“Do you remember that INEXPLICABLE business years ago?”
Mary shuddered.
“Yes,” she whispered.
In addition to its being a horrible crime that utterly revolted every decent instinct, it was to Mary an awesome murder from other aspects. One, she had actually spoken to the old man and liked him. Another, it seemed uncanny that after all these years such well-remembered killings should start again. And, again, it was with active fear she remembered how closely she and her hone had been associated with those all-but-forgotten, bloodthirsty attacks.
Suddenly and clearly her mind repictured that appalling apparition that had burst upon her at the instant of her curse . . .
She shuddered. A sense of gloom, of the dark, inevitable approach of fate, depressed her. Terry, Mary felt the need of her friend. Always it was so, she realized, when any crisis threatened her. Always Terry she wanted. Was he coming home early to-night? She hoped so . .
Would phone him and ask him to come as soon as he might.
She thought about Mr. Govina and the necessity to tell him he could not remain. Now that she was approaching home and, in all probability, an interview over this or that detail, she felt her courage ebb . . . He was a rather eerie sort of creature and honesty forced her to self-confession—she would never dare to face her self-sought guest in order to dismiss him. Perhaps Terry would take over this task . . . Or could she leave a note?
She hoped that Anne had taken up his tea and that he’d not been back for his lunch to feel offended by hers and Anne’s absence . . .
She’d phone Terry immediately she got in; and in obedience to this determination she crossed without bothering to light up the now dim, almost dark, hall, running instead to snatch at the receiver.
“Is that you, Terry? . . . Yes, Terry . . . You remember the old man we talked about at lunch? . . . He’s been killed, Terry. Torn open . . . Just like before . . . You know, THE INEXPLICABLE . . . His body’s been found in Clayton’s Waste.”
“Mary!”
It was Terry’s voice, softly behind her, from the stairs . . . But how was that possible? She’d heard Terry speak on the phone. But she banged down the receiver and turned, saying “Yes.”
Then she heard her name again from the landing, or was it the passage off the landing?
“Where are you?” she called and ran lightly up.
But the landing was clothed in deep darkness, so she had to fumble a little for the switch and, when the light came, she could see no sign of anyone; nor, though she ran from room to room, could she find any living person from whom the voice might have come.
In a panic she ran again to the phone. Terry must come home. She must have some explanation why she could hear his voice in one place and almost simultaneously here in her own home.
But she got no answer to her ring. Lights! She plunged the hall into light harder than the glare of emotionless diamonds.
Where had that voice come from? No! It could not have been imagination . . .
She could not stay here in this empty hall alone. She must see and talk to someone. Anne! Crotchety in her advancing years, Anne hated to be disturbed when preparing meals; but, well, she’d just have to put up with it . . .
But Anne was for once as glad to have company even during her busy hour as Mary.
“I was just wishing you’d come in, M’m. I’ve fair got the hump to-night . . .” She looked round her uneasily. “I don’t know why, but this house give me the creeps for once.”
“Why, that’s funny, Anne! I feel exactly the same. I came in for company . . . How’s the dinner?”
“Oh, all set, as they say on the pictures. It’ll look after itself for the next half-hour or so.”
“Did you hear about that old man being killed?”
“What old man, M’m?”
“Well, when I was setting off on my shopping this morning, an old man stopped me and said he was a reporter and wanted to know if it was true that we had a distinguished writer staying with us? And . . .”
“What was he like?”
“Tall, lean, white-haired, rather foreign-looking.”
“Well, that’s a funny thing. He came to my back door and showed me your advert for rooms; said he wanted some. I told him we hadn’t any to let.”
“Well, that is a funny thing, indeed! How really, really mysterious!”
“Oh!”
“What, Anne?”
“D’you think he was a detective? That’s it, M’m, you may depend! He was a detective in plain clothes and he was making inquires about that man upstairs.”
The probability of this nonplussed Mary. It certainly did look as if Terry was justified in his strong warning.
“Well, he’s dead, Anne. He was killed in Clayton’s Waste. After you left the exhibition I only stayed ten minutes and then went to get that silk from Morgan’s. Then I caught a tram and a woman was telling the conductor about this old man.”
“Who killed him, M’m?”
“They don’t know . . . He was ripped open . . .”
“Why, that’s like . . .”
“Yes. THE INEXPLICABLE business.”
“Oh lor, M’m, now I have got the creeps. I wish they was in for dinner.”
“Hasn’t Mr. Govina come in yet?”
“No . . . But I don’t want him in without either Mr. Terry or Mr. Don.”
The two women looked at each other with fear-widened eyes.
“Anne, let’s go and walk in the garden. I’d rather be out than in.”
“So’d I, M’m.”
“What about the dinner?”
“It’ll be all right for long enough yet.”
“Very well . . . We’ll go in the front, Anne, shall we? The back’s too lonely.”
“Yes, M’m. And then we can see Mr. Terry or Mr. Don come in. Mr. Terry’s late.”
“Well, that’s not unusual. Some business at the last.”
It was a pleasant night enough, though dark. Rain, Mary thought, was on the way. They walked about discussing the exhibition witho
ut either interest or concentration. Their minds were sufficiently alert, but not for clever domestic devices.
“Let’s sit down,” Mary said suddenly. Both had walked many miles that afternoon—or so, Mary thought, her limbs protested.
There was a seat in the shadows of the big beech tree, and here they could see the gate without being seen. The light from the hall, while illuminating most of their immediate surroundings, missed the tree. They were thankful for that light. It gave them a measure of confidence. However, the shrubs lining the far wall were, Mary noticed, in complete shadow . . .
She gave a start.
“Anne!”
“Yes, M’m?”
“Just look at that cat’s eyes over there.”
“Where, M’m?”
“Among those bushes by the gate.”
“Oh, lor.”
Both women fell silent. They stared at the gleaming eyes. Then they were gone—the eyes. Mary and Anne stirred uneasily.
“I believe I’m going to have a headache,” Mary whispered presently.
“Maybe it’s the weather, M’m. I’m feeling sluggish myself.”
A sound attracted them. Someone was coming through the gate.
“It’s Mr. Govina,” Anne whispered.
In silence they watched his feline progress . . . until he vanished in the house.
“Ought one of us to go and see if he wants anything?” Mary whispered.
“Yes. But I’m not going—even if he explodes. And another thing. You’re not.”
“Look, he’s up there, sitting by his window.”
Anne, following her mistress’s gaze, glanced up and saw the dark form of Govina, now divested of his voluminous outer garments, sitting by his window apparently reading. The radiance from the hall was sufficiently strong to make his black figure discernible. Now and again a ray caught the lens of his goggles so that they glinted.
“He don’t look real,” Anne muttered with a nervous giggle. And then she added. “Oh, why doesn’t Mr. Terry come?”
“Look!” Mary exclaimed under her breath.
“What, M’m?” Anne demanded irritably.
“A policeman looked in at our gate.”
“God be praised. I like policeman—all of a sudden.”
