With the beam I swiftly quartered the room, probing it into every corner and shadowed nook. The creature that had attacked Gird had utterly vanished. Susan Gird now gave a soft moan, like a dreamer of dreadful things. I flashed my light her way.
It flooded her face and she quivered under the impact of the glare, but did not open her eyes. Beyond her I saw Zoberg, doubled forward in his bonds. He was staring blackly at the form of Gird, his eyes protruding and his clenched teeth showing through his beard.
“Doctor Zoberg!” I shouted at him, and his face jerked nervously toward me. It was fairly cross-hatched with tense lines, and as white as fresh pipe-clay. He tried to say something, but his voice would not command itself.
Dropping the torch upon the floor, I next dug keys from my pocket and with trembling haste unlocked the irons from Susan Gird’s wrist and ankle on my side. Then, stepping hurriedly to Zoberg, I made him sit up and freed him as speedily as possible. Finally I returned, found my torch again and stepped across to Gird.
My first glance at close quarters was enough; he was stone-dead, with his throat torn brutally out. His cheeks, too, were ripped in parallel gashes, as though by the grasp of claws or nails. Radiance suddenly glowed behind me, and Zoberg moved forward, holding up the carbide lamp.
“I found this beside your chair,” he told me unsteadily. “I found a match and lighted it.” He looked down at Gird, and his lips twitched, as though he would be hysterical.
“Steady, Doctor,” I cautioned him sharply, and took the lamp from him. “See what you can do for Gird.”
He stooped slowly, as though he had grown old. I stepped to one side, putting the lamp on the table. Zoberg spoke again:
“It is absolutely no use, Wills. We can do nothing. Gird has been killed.”
I had turned my attention to the girl. She still sagged in her chair, breathing deeply and rhythmically as if in untroubled slumber.
“Susan,” I called her. “Susan!”
She did not stir, and Doctor Zoberg came back to where I bent above her. “Susan,” he whispered penetratingly, “wake up, child.”
Her eyes unveiled themselves slowly, and looked up at us. “What—” she began drowsily.
“Prepare yourself,” I cautioned her quickly. “Something has happened to your father.”
She stared across at Gird’s body, and then she screamed, tremulously and long. Zoberg caught her in his arms, and she swayed and shuddered against their supporting circle. From her own wrists my irons still dangled, and they clanked as she wrung her hands in aimless distraction.
Going to the dead man once more, I unchained him from the chair and turned him upon his back. Susan’s black cloak lay upon one of the other chairs, and I picked it up and spread it above him. Then I went to each door in turn, and to the windows.
“The seals are unbroken,” I reported. “There isn’t a space through which even a mouse could slip in or out. Yet—”
“I did it!” wailed Susan suddenly. “Oh, my God, what dreadful thing came out of me to murder my father!”
I unfastened the parlour door and opened it. Almost at the same time a loud knock sounded from the front of the house.
Zoberg lifted his head, nodding to me across Susan’s trembling shoulder. His arms were still clasped around her, and I could not help but notice that they seemed thin and ineffectual now. When I had chained them, I had wondered at their steely cording. Had this awful calamity drained him of strength?
“Go,” he said hoarsely. “See who it is.”
I went. Opening the front door, I came face to face with a tall, angular silhouette in a slouch hat with snow on the brim.
“Who are you?” I jerked out, startled.
“O’Bryant,” boomed back an organ-deep bass. “What’s the fuss here?”
“Well—” I began, then hesitated.
“Stranger in town, ain’t you?” was the next question. “I saw you when you stopped at the Luther Inn. I’m O’Bryant – the constable.”
He strode across the door-sill, peered about him in the dark, and then slouched into the lighted dining room. Following, I made him out as a stern, roughly dressed man of forty or so, with a lean face made strong by a salient chin and a similar nose. His light blue eyes studied the still form of John Gird, and he stooped to draw away the cloak. Susan gave another agonized cry, and I heard Zoberg gasp as if deeply shocked. The constable, too, flinched and replaced the cloak more quickly than he had taken it up.
“Who done that?” he barked at me.
Again I found it hard to answer. Constable O’Bryant sniffed suspiciously at each of us in turn, took up the lamp and herded us into the parlour. There he made us take seats.
“I want to know everything about this business,” he said harshly. “You,” he flung at me, “you seem to be the closest to sensible. Give me the story, and don’t leave out a single bit of it.”
Thus commanded, I made shift to describe the séance and what had led up to it. I was as uneasy as most innocent people are when unexpectedly questioned by peace officers. O’Bryant interrupted twice with a guttural “Huh!” and once with a credulous whistle.
“And this killing happened in the dark?” he asked when I had finished. “Well, which of you dressed up like a devil and done it?”
Susan whimpered and bowed her head. Zoberg, outraged, sprang to his feet.
“It was a creature from another world,” he protested angrily. “None of us had a reason to kill Mr Gird.”
O’Bryant emitted a sharp, equine laugh. “Don’t go to tell me any ghost stories, Doctor Zoberg. We folks have heard a lot about the hocus-pocus you’ve pulled off here from time to time. Looks like it might have been to cover up some kind of rough stuff.”
“How could it be?” demanded Zoberg. “Look here, Constable, these handcuffs.” He held out one pair of them. “We were all confined with them, fastened to chairs that were sealed to the floor. Mr Gird was also chained, and his chair made fast out of our reach. Go into the next room and look for yourself.”
“Let me see them irons,” grunted O’Bryant, snatching them.
He turned them over and over in his hands, snapped them shut, tugged and pressed, then held out a hand for my keys. Unlocking the cuffs, he peered into the clamping mechanism.
“These are regulation bracelets,” he pronounced. “You were all chained up, then?”
“We were,” replied Zoberg, and both Susan and I nodded.
Into the constable’s blue eyes came a sudden shrewd light. “I guess you must have been, at that. But did you stay that way?” He whipped suddenly around, bending above my chair to fix his gaze upon me. “How about you, Mr Wills?”
“Of course we stayed that way,” I replied.
“Yeh? Look here, ain’t you a professional magician?”
“How did you know that?” I asked.
He grinned widely and without warmth. “The whole town’s been talking about you, Mr Wills. A stranger can’t be here all day without his whole record coming out.” The grin vanished. “You’re a magician, all right, and you can get out of handcuffs. Ain’t that so?”
“Of course it’s so,” Zoberg answered for me. “But why should that mean that my friend has killed Mr Gird?”
O’Bryant wagged his head in triumph. “That’s what we’ll find out later. Right now it adds up very simple. Gird was killed, in a room that was all sealed up. Three other folks was in with him, all handcuffed to their chairs. Which of them got loose without the others catching on?” He nodded brightly at me, as if in answer to his own question.
Zoberg gave me a brief, penetrating glance, then seemed to shrivel up in his own chair. He looked almost as exhausted as Susan. I, too, was feeling near to collapse.
“You want to own up, Mr Wills?” invited O’Bryant.
“I certainly do not,” I snapped at him. “You’ve got the wrong man.”
“I thought,” he made answer, as though catching me in a damaging admission, “that it was a devil, not a
man, who killed Gird.”
I shook my head. “I don’t know what killed him.”
“Maybe you’ll remember after a while.” He turned toward the door. “You come along with me. I’m going to lock you up.”
I rose with a sigh of resignation, but paused for a moment to address Zoberg. “Get hold of yourself,” I urged him. “Get somebody in here to look after Miss Susan, and then clarify in your mind what happened. You can help me prove that it wasn’t I.”
Zoberg nodded very wearily, but did not look up.
“Don’t neither of you go into that room where the body is,” O’Bryant warned them. “Mr Wills, get your coat and hat.”
I did so, and we left the house. The snow was inches deep and still falling. O’Bryant led me across the street and knocked on the door of a peak-roofed house. A swarthy little man opened to us.
“There’s been a murder, Jim,” said O’Bryant importantly. “Over at Gird’s. You’re deputized – go and keep watch. Better take the missus along, to look after Susan. She’s bad cut up about it.”
We left the new deputy in charge and walked down the street, then turned into the square. Two or three men standing in front of the “Pharmacy” stared curiously, then whispered as we passed. Another figure paused to give me a searching glance. I was not too stunned to be irritated.
“Who are those?” I asked the constable.
“Town fellows,” he informed me. “They’re mighty interested to see what a killer looks like.”
“How do they know about the case?” I almost groaned.
He achieved his short, hard laugh.
“Didn’t I say that news travels fast in a town like this? Half the folks are talking about the killing this minute.”
“You’ll find you made a mistake,” I assured him.
“If I have, I’ll beg your pardon handsome. Meanwhile, I’ll do my duty.”
We were at the red brick town hall by now. At O’Bryant’s side I mounted the granite steps and waited while he unlocked the big double door with a key the size of a can-opener.
“We’re a kind of small town,” he observed, half apologetically, “but there’s a cell upstairs for you. Take off your hat and overcoat – you’re staying inside till further notice.”
V “They want to take the law into their own hands”
The cell was an upper room of the town hall, with a heavy wooden door and a single tiny window. The walls were of bare, unplastered brick, the floor of concrete and the ceiling of whitewashed planks. An oil lamp burned in a bracket. The only furniture was an iron bunk hinged to the wall just below the window, a wire-bound straight chair and an unpainted table. On top of this last stood a bowl and pitcher, with playing-cards scattered around them.
Constable O’Bryant locked me in and peered through a small grating in the door. He was all nose and eyes and wide lips, like a sardonic Punchinello.
“Look here,” I addressed him suddenly, for the first time controlling my frayed nerves; “I want a lawyer.”
“There ain’t no lawyer in town,” he boomed sourly.
“Isn’t there a Judge Pursuivant in the neighborhood?” I asked, remembering something that Susan had told me.
“He don’t practise law,” O’Bryant grumbled, and his beaked face slid out of sight.
I turned to the table, idly gathered up the cards into a pack and shuffled them. To steady my still shaky fingers, I produced a few simple sleight-of-hand effects, palming of aces, making a king rise to the top, and springing the pack accordion-wise from one hand to the other.
“I’d sure hate to play poker with you,” volunteered O’Bryant, who had come again to gaze at me.
I crossed to the grating and looked through at him. “You’ve got the wrong man,” I said once more. “Even if I were guilty, you couldn’t keep me from talking to a lawyer.”
“Well, I’m doing it, ain’t I?” he taunted me. “You wait until tomorrow and we’ll go to the county seat. The sheriff can do whatever he wants to about a lawyer for you.”
He ceased talking and listened. I heard the sound, too – a hoarse, dull murmur as of coal in a chute, or a distant, lowing herd of troubled cattle.
“What’s that?” I asked him.
O’Bryant, better able to hear in the corridor, cocked his lean head for a moment. Then he cleared his throat. “Sounds like a lot of people talking, out in the square,” he replied. “I wonder—”
He broke off quickly and walked away. The murmur was growing. I, pressing close to the grating to follow the constable with my eyes, saw that his shoulders were squared and his hanging fists doubled, as though he were suddenly aware of a lurking danger.
He reached the head of the stairs and clumped down, out of my sight. I turned back to the cell, walked to the bunk and, stepping upon it, raised the window. To the outside of the wooden frame two flat straps of iron had been securely bolted to act as bars. To these I clung as I peered out.
I was looking from the rear of the hall toward the center of the square, with the war memorial and the far line of shops and houses seen dimly through a thick curtain of falling snow. Something dark moved closer to the wall beneath, and I heard a cry, as if of menace.
“I see his head in the window!” bawled a voice, and more cries greeted this statement. A moment later a heavy missile hit the wall close to the frame.
I dropped back from the window and went once more to the grating of the door. Through it I saw O’Bryant coming back, accompanied by several men. They came close and peered through at me.
“Let me out,” I urged. “That’s a mob out there.”
O’Bryant nodded dolefully. “Nothing like this ever happened here before,” he said, as if he were responsible for the town’s whole history of violence. “They act like they want to take the law into their own hands.”
A short, fat man spoke at his elbow. “We’re members of the town council, Mr Wills. We heard that some of the citizens were getting ugly. We came here to look after you. We promise full protection.”
“Amen,” intoned a thinner specimen, whom I guessed to be the preacher.
“There are only half a dozen of you,” I pointed out. “Is that enough to guard me from a violent mob?”
As if to lend significance to my question, from below and in front of the building came a great shout, compounded of many voices. Then a loud pounding echoed through the corridor, like a bludgeon on stout panels.
“You locked the door, Constable?” asked the short man.
“Sure I did,” nodded O’Bryant.
A perfect rain of buffets sounded from below, then a heavy impact upon the front door of the hall. I could hear the hinges creak.
“They’re trying to break the door down,” whispered one of the council.
The short man turned resolutely on his heel. “There’s a window at the landing of the stairs,” he said. “Let’s go and try to talk to them from that.”
The whole party followed him away, and I could hear their feet on the stairs, then the lifting of a heavy window-sash. A loud and prolonged yelling came to my ears, as if the gathering outside had sighted and recognized a line of heads on the sill above them.
“Fellow citizens!” called the stout man’s voice, but before he could go on a chorus of cries and hoots drowned him out. I could hear more thumps and surging shoves at the creaking door.
Escape I must. I whipped around and fairly ran to the bunk, mounting it second time for a peep from my window. Nobody was visible below; apparently those I had seen previously had run to the front of the hall, there to hear the bellowings of the officials and take a hand in forcing the door.
Once again I dropped to the floor and began to tug at the fastenings of the bunk. It was an open oblong of metal, a stout frame of rods strung with springy wire netting. It could be folded upward against the wall and held with a catch, or dropped down with two lengths of chain to keep it horizontal. I dragged the mattress and blankets from it, then began a close examination of the chains. Th
ey were stoutly made, but the screw-plates that held them to the brick wall might be loosened. Clutching one chain with both my hands, I tugged with all my might, a foot braced against the wall. A straining heave, and it came loose.
At the same moment an explosion echoed through the corridor at my back, and more shouts rang through the air. Either O’Bryant or the mob had begun to shoot. Then a rending crash shook the building, and I heard one of the councilmen shouting: “Another like that and the door will be down!”
His words inspired additional speed within me. I took the loose end of the chain in my hand. Its links were of twisted iron, and the final one had been sawed through to admit the loop of the screw-plate, then clamped tight again. But my frantic tugging had widened this narrow cut once more, and quickly I freed it from the dangling plate. Then, folding the bunk against the wall, I drew the chain upward. It would just reach to the window – that open link would hook around one of the flat bars.
The noise of breakage rang louder in the front of the building. Once more I heard the voice of the short councilman: “I command you all to go home, before Constable O’Bryant fires on you again!”
“We got guns, too!” came back a defiant shriek, and in proof of this statement came a rattle of shots. I heard an agonized moan, and the voice of the minister: “Are you hit?”
“In the shoulder,” was O’Bryant’s deep, savage reply.
My chain fast to the bar, I pulled back and down on the edge of the bunk. It gave some leverage, but not enough – the bar was fastened too solidly. Desperate, I clambered upon the iron framework. Gaining the sill, I moved sidewise, then turned and braced my back against the wall. With my feet against the edge of the bunk, I thrust it away with all the strength in both my legs. A creak and a ripping sound, and the bar pulled slowly out from its bolts.
But a roar and thunder of feet told me that the throng outside had gained entrance to the hall at last.
I heard a last futile flurry of protesting cries from the councilmen as the steps echoed with the charge of many heavy boots. I waited no longer, but swung myself to the sill and wriggled through the narrow space where the bar had come out. A lapel of my jacket tore against the frame, but I made it. Clinging by the other bar, I made out at my side a narrow band of perpendicular darkness against the wall, and clutched at it. It was a tin drainpipe, by the feel of it.
The Mammoth Book of Wolf Men Page 34
