by Don Wilcox
Too soft for what?
Was it possible that one of those thirteen discipleships might fall to him—ij he qualified?
The thought held him in such a grip that for a full minute he clung to the rope motionless, forgetting that he had completed his descent.
To be a disciple of destiny—
To enter into Graygortch’s secret realm—
To be welded in a spiritual union with the most powerful, most treacherous war-mongers of Europe, the handpicked big-shots of evil from all over the world—twelve of them and himself!
Captain Jag Rouse strode through the halls carrying his high left shoulder a trifle higher. He was bearing an invisible load of fresh determination. The discipline around Graygortch Castle was going to stiffen.
To begin with, Rouse would rout out that khaki-clad young stranger and give him the works.
CHAPTER VIII
Hank to the Rescue
Ross Bradford roused up out of his storm spell. The vision that seemed to have hypnotized him into inertia had vanished. The faint gong sounds filtered through the heavy walls, slowly descending the eight tone scale.
Vivian was still sitting before the microphone, but the radio had been switched off. She was weeping.
“Is there anything I can do?” Ross spoke softly.
The girl touched a handkerchief to her face before she turned to him. She seemed to have forgotten there was still a visitor present.
“I’d better go,” said Ross. He felt somewhat embarrassed at being here, especially considering the hour. It must be almost morning. “I’m sorry to see you in such a mess of trouble. I don’t know what it’s all about. But I wish I could take you away—”
Vivian rose defensively. She resented being thought a weakling, especially by this stranger of whom she knew so little. A touch of spitfire manner returned.
“I shouldn’t have let you come here.
I only did it because I hate Rouse. But you’ll have to deal with him sooner or later—unless—”
“Unless what?”
“Unless Uncle Graygortch lets Schubert take charge of you. You are a candidate for my marriage, you know.” Ross looked at her sternly. “I thought I made it plain, young lady, that I—”
“When did you first feel the mysterious call to come here, Mr. Bradford?”
“There wasn’t any mysterious call. I came of my own volition. I’ll go the same way.”
“I’m afraid it isn’t as easy as that. Whether you knew it or not, my uncle influenced you to come here. I can’t tell you how. I only know that his power reaches out all over the face of the earth. It calls to people—a certain class of people.”
“Maybe I’m not in that class,” said Ross.
Vivian’s lips curved in a smile that was half pity. “I wish I could think you weren’t.”
Ross shrugged. “I don’t know what you think I am, but you needn’t feel sorry for me. I’ve come here to see what’s back of this skyful of misdirected power. Nobody seems to know. Everybody’s fogged up with superstitions—”
“They’re not superstitions,” said Vivian curtly. “Let me show you something.”
She opened a miniature door that led into a second room of her childhood suite. He followed her to the east window, looked out across the black mountain-tops toward the village on the east side of the island. A row of five or six fires marked the location of the village.
“They hold their own ceremonies down there after each storm.” said Vivian. “That east village was formed in recent years by persons from all over the world who tried to come to the castle.”
“Why did they want to come?”
“They felt the mysterious call—that’s as far as the explanation goes,” said Vivian. “All I know is that we’re continually molested by newcomers. Many of them bring gifts. Our sailors take the gifts and then beat the people away. Some of them sail back home, others can’t seem to leave. They drift over to the east slope, build houses and live. But the native fishermen won’t have any dealings with them because they know that everyone mysteriously drawn here is some sort of criminal.
“Now, Mr. Bradford,” the girl led the way back across the room, “I hope I’ve made myself clear.”
“I see you’ve got me branded,” Ross chuckled, mirthlessly. “All right, as long as you feel that way we’d better not have any further dealings. Now if someone will just introduce me to this man Graygortch so I can pick up one or two facts—”
“That will be up to Schubert or Rou—”
A sharp rap at the corridor door threw Vivian into a hushed flutter. She motioned Ross back into the farther room, shut the door after him, then answered the knock.
It was Captain Rouse. He wanted to know if Vivian had seen a stranger, a young man in khaki.
“You’d better try the guest chambers,” Vivian replied. “I don’t know anything about him”
She opened the door far enough to feel the chill of Rouse’s eyes.
A moment later the big man’s footsteps died away.
“Since you’ve marked me as a criminal,” said Ross, when Vivian had rejoined him in the farther room, “why didn’t you turn me in?”
The girl was trembling. Her feelings were apparently too complex for words. Suddenly she was fighting back tears.
“You—you don’t know what it’s like, living here.”
Ross frowned. Scarcely realizing what he was doing, he caught her arms in his hands, drew her close.
“You’ve no business living in this mess. Let me get you out of it. I’ll play square with you—”
“Listen to me, Ross.” The note of urgency in her voice struck home. “You’re the one who’s in danger. “There’s no such thing as a fair chance around here when Jag Rouse looks the way I saw him look a moment ago.” Ross’ lips tightened stubbornly. “I don’t intend to leave this castle until I—”
“You couldn’t leave it if you wanted to. But I can’t hide you here any longer. When Rouse comes back he’ll bring some maids to search my rooms. You’ve got to hurry. I can’t tell you where to go.”
“Could I borrow a few things?” Ross passed his hands along the conglomeration of articles that filled the shelves. He picked up a box of modeling clay and a ball of thread, much to Vivian’s bewilderment. “Thanks. I’ll go now.”
“Where?”
“Back to my room first. From there—well, it depends.”
Vivian opened the little corridor door, listened for the bells. Everything was quiet. “Now’s your chance, Ross,” she said. “You’ll be careful, won’t you?”
He hesitated, suddenly aware that she was pressing his hand impulsively.
“I know how to be careful,” he said. He lifted her hand, pressed it to his lips in a manner at once brusque and tender. “But I warn you, I’d rather be reckless—”
A blaze of spitfire temper shot from Vivian’s eyes, crossed up by a hint of amused smile from her lips.
“Hurry,” she said.
Instantly, she closed the little door and Ross, standing outside it, heard it lock.
He thrust the box of modeling clay inside his shirt, slipped cautiously back to his southwest corner room.
The slightest gray of dawn broke the eastern sky. Jimpson was on his way up the perpendicular cliff to make his morning call.
Ross wrote a brief message, tied it, together with a small lump of clay, to the thread, and proceeded to unwind the spool.
The pendulum swung down. Within a few minutes Jimpson, after recovering from the fright of being bumped on the nose with a floating gob of clay, read the message.
There, Ross thought; if one Hank Switcher was still on the island, that should be enough to warn him to keep away from this danger spot.
Jimpson was looking up with what appeared, through the heavy grayness, to be a pleased grin, indicating by motions that he was eager to do anything he could in the way of favors. Ross passed down a second message inquiring whether there was any spare rope to be had.
/> It was a matter of several minutes before this order was filled. Ross kept a sharp ear toward the corridor door. Rouse and a few of the sailors were coming back toward this corner of the castle. They stopped to search each room. That was Rouse’s characteristic thoroughness.
At last Jimpson, some two and a half floors below Ross’ window, emerged from what must have been a sub-basement supply room. He had found a coil of light strong rope, also a roll of fine wire.
With the thread, Ross lifted the wire. With the wire he was able to pull up the end of the rope. Jimpson had certainly done his good turn for today.
And while Jimpson plodded down the cliff side by his well-defined route, Ross Bradford threaded his way upward into unexplored territory. Having succeeded in looping the rope over a projecting timber at the roof’s edge, he moved himself, bag and baggage, out of the window and up to the castle’s penthouse regions.
Only instead of penthouses there were towers—seldom occupied, no doubt, but they did contain windows and Ross was taking no chances on being seen. He made a swift survey of the rambling roofs and chose a well concealed nook for his headquarters. There he deposited his wire, rope, thread and clay. Then he slipped back to the roof’s edge where he had crawled up, listened.
Soon he heard Rouse and three or four sailors come into his former room, search it, and leave without picking up his trail. His breathing grew easier. For the present he was comparatively safe. He cast a long curious gaze at the one tall cylindrical tower, noted its unglassed windows.
But there was a little too much daylight, already, for him to venture to any higher levels. The guards out on the court might see him. The mysteries of the storm tower would have to wait.
A dense fog lay thick on the sea under the rising dawn.
Before that fog lifted, Ross was certain he heard the voice of Hank Switcher, wafting up from the opaque gray. Jimpson’s voice, too, was unmistakable; and there was also the voice of a girl.
So Hank had got the message, thought Ross. He would stay away—maybe. This was no place for Hank. There was a wonderful supply of dynamite for his story notebooks, all right; but Hank wasn’t cut out for skating this close to dynamite. He’d better stay away and get his material second hand. Ross wished he’d made the message to Hank more emphatic.
An uneventful day was exactly what Ross Bradford wanted, and he got it.
Most of the forenoon he passed lying in his chosen roof nook, planning, waiting. His idea for exploring the storm tower began to crystallize.
The afternoon was only slightly disturbed. A ladder was up-ended at one of the remote eaves and four sailors climbed up on the roof. Ross thought, “Here it comes. They’re after me.”
But the sailors went about their own business, which consisted of hoisting some timbers to the roof and doing some carpenter work. These quakes were rough on the old blue-stone castle, and the job of reinforcing the architecture was evidently a regular chore.
Ross could hear the men talking as they worked. He listened intently, learned more of the inside life of this place, only to become more mystified. He was surprised to hear, among other things, that there was a sub-basement power plant which was turbine operated, receiving its water power from the Flinfiord river.
There was much speculation among these men about Schubert’s unorthodox behavior in admitting a stranger the other day—apparently without Rouse’s consent. Too bad Schubert wasn’t tough enough to defy Rouse outright, they said. Or was he?
Rouse’s search party, the men agreed, would smoke the mysterious stranger out of his hiding place sooner or later. And Rouse was expected to be in good form for dealing with the fellow when they found him.
CHAPTER IX
Evening
Evening came on, Ross Bradford again had the range of the roof to himself. He waited eagerly for the dark.
Darkness proved a disappointment. Two of the minor towers were lighted. Their slits of windows threw bright stripes of light across the rooftops. If Ross crossed those stripes he ran the risk of being spotted by sailors stationed at the outer edge of the hockey court.
Later in the night one of the towers darkened. Ross took his rope, felt his way along the eaves. It was a long and complicated way around the rooftops, spiked with perilous climbs and dead ends.
But at length he was safe on a high ridgepole that winged out from the tall tower approximately half way up its eight foot height.
There Ross went to work flinging his looped rope upward into the darkness. Somewhere up on that tower top there would be something for the loop to catch on—he hoped.
He threw rope until his arm rebelled. A good thing, he muttered, that he didn’t count his trials. He’d have run out of numbers.
“Come, seven,” he growled, and tried again. One catch was all he needed. Hours of trial and error were all he got. He lengthened the rope, tied heavier knots in it to give it more weight, flung it with his left hand to try to change the angle. Each time the rope came thumping back to the roof.
He swore under his breath. Forty or fifty feet of upright cylindrical wall were all that separated him from the unknown.
Forty or fifty feet of perpendicular blackness against the solid overcast sky.
A light sprinkling rain passed over. The roof timbers grew slick. Ross lopped himself over the ridgepole, rested, tried to think of a substitute plan.
But no flashing ideas came to him out of the blackness. He might climb back into his castle room and take a long chance on slipping through corridors and ascending the tower stairs. But no—the bells would betray him at every corner. Or if he got by them, the great tower gongs would finish him. As long as Rouse was on the warpath, any such foolhardy attempt would be futile—and worse.
Yes, one slip could be fatal. Ross had caught some conversation about Rouse’s trapdoor disciplinary ceremonies—which recalled a mental picture of Jimpson waiting at the foot of the promontory to record his peculiar brand of statistics.
Ross wondered how soon the searching party would think of the roof. He wondered whether this light rain would make tracks.
The first hint of dawn was in the sky when he at last achieved his hard-earned success.
The long rope slithered high into the air, barely cutting over the upper edge of the tower—a little visibility went a long ways. The loop dropped down out of sight and when Ross tugged he found the rope had caught—on something, he didn’t know what.
He tried it with increasing pulls, finally added his whole weight to it. It was solid, ready for ascent.
But the graying sky reminded him of something else—Jimpson. The crippled messenger must be contacted now or not at all today.
Ross cut the surplus rope off at the ridgepole, looped it around his shoulder and made his way down to his original roof headquarters. The second tower’s lights had gone off long ago, so the return trip was an easy shortcut.
A shadowy Jimpson was threading his way upward along the bleak gray promontory wall far beneath the eaves.
Soon the message thread, weighted with a lump of clay, was carrying pencilled communications back and forth.
Your friend said tell you he would come up. Told me so yesterday morning.
That message made Ross’ fever leap. He rolled the note into a wad, flipped it seaward, swore to himself.
The second message concerned Jimpson’s own game—whatever it might be. He needed the roll of wire. Ross sent it down, and with it a few tools from his pocket kit. Jimpson waved a thank you, picked up the daily package Fantella had prepared for him, and went his way.
Clouds now turned to pink fluffy balls, drifted across the eastern mountaintops. The black jagged line that marked the edge of the river canyon took on tints of morning color.
From the eastern edge of the castle grounds—the hockey court, as Ross termed it—came a bluster of voices. Some sailors on night guard duty roused up from their portable cots, angry to be awakened so early.
Someone was approaching the gate, evidently.
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Ross turned his roof-climbing course away from the big tower, slipped along the eaves to the eastward. He could see a group of sailors making ready with their clubs. Their muttering hushed.
At last a thin little shadow of a man slipped through the gate. His cautious creeping movement struck Ross as being sinister. Ross crawled to another roof and by the time he got his next view the hockey game was on. The sailors rushed in from two sides to swamp the dark little newcomer with blows.
The rain-spattered court turned into a dusty battleground. As the chase circled around, Ross caught a count of the forces. Ten to one. The ten had clubs. The one had a huge curved sword hanging at his side—so much dead weight. The fellow was too badly scared to think of defending himself.
Now the game was in full fury almost directly below Ross. The victim was a Japanese. In a thin crackling voice he was trying to shout his protests. The sailors guffawed at him and poured on their blows.
From his porchtop observatory Ross got a good look at the clubs. At the business end they resembled hammers out of a giant piano. One side of each club was heavily padded with felt, the opposite side was polished wood. So that was why this game could last more than a few minutes. The players could lay on with all their might, giving vent to the killers’ impulses, and still make the victim last.
For a full hour they sandbagged the Japanese.
Sometimes after a goal they would stop for a breathing spell, but the instant the infuriated Oriental reached for his sword they jumped back into the game full force.
Ross thought, if only Hank Switcher could see a little of this before he showed his face inside that gate, he’d know enough to do his running in the other direction.
Suddenly the shouting indicated that the game was over and it was time for a final chase to the gate.
