“Look, Anne, look.”
Behind us the guttering candle flickered, hissed, went out. Dan flicked on his flashlight. His hand was shaking.
Inside the desk, placed side by side, lay three things. The first was one of those familiar photographs of John S. Hieronomo on which Amos had inscribed: “His honour rooted in dishonour stood, and he was false to every helpless man and woman who ever came his way.” The second was a handbill offering a reward of $500 for the return of Becky Lee, fugitive slave from Preston, South Carolina, field Negro wench aged twenty, height five feet three, weight one hundred and twenty pounds, color light, teeth in good condition. The third was an unfinished document that began:
“I, Amos Lee, in order that truth and justice prevail, want to confess that I knew who killed John S. Hieronomo, and know why he died. I had no part in the murder. For many years I meant that the old man should die, but I lacked the courage for the deed. Morally, I am as guilty as the killer whose venal motive was to keep the old man’s tainted money in the family. John S. Hieronomo was dead of a fractured skull when I helped put him in the carriage twenty-five years ago and drove him to the railroad station, and arranged an accident in which I would gladly have sacrificed my own life.
“Wicked as I was, I intended always that the tainted gold, won from trafficking in human misery, should lie and rot forever, that the crime and the criminal should be preserved from any mercenary taint. What I did not realize was that the evil of the past would become the evil of the present, that the father’s bloodstained gold would destroy his daughter. But when Amanda Silver, after years of bitter poverty, decided to paint the house and came upon the truth, she was determined to mete out justice on her own. She . . .”
There the document ended very neatly, and at the bottom of a sheet of paper. A second sheet that lay underneath was blank. There was no sign to indicate why Amos had ceased to write. It looked as though he had simply laid down his pen, risen, closed the desk and gone away.
Earlier it was I who had desired to rush in panic from the cave. Now it was Dan who was in frenzied haste. He seized the single sheet of paper, the photograph, the telltale handbill, thrust them in his pocket.
“We’ve got to find Amos instantly. The two deaths—the old man’s and Amanda’s—are linked, and only Amos—God help him!—knows the link. The Negro is in deadly danger. Once the killer guesses or suspects that Amos means to talk, unburden his own soul—well, it’s the end of Amos.”
We, too—Dan and myself—were in peril of a different kind, but no less real. Dan’s safety and my happiness were dependent upon Amos. We had to hear the remainder of the Negro’s story—that story begun by a man who finally had brought himself to confession and expiation of an ancient crime, begun calmly, soberly, clearly and then, inexplicably, left unfinished.
Hand in hand, Dan and I fled across the cavern. Haste undid us. It was a small accident, but fatal. Dan’s free hand somehow caught the yawning door. The flashlight escaped his grip, and dropped. Glass tinkled against solid rock.
The sudden darkness was like a blow. The corridor that opened immediately before us had been shadowy and dim before. It now was absolutely black. The iron door vanished, the rocky floor, the roof. I could hear Dan’s sharply indrawn breath, could feel his hand in mine, but I couldn’t see his face. We stood stock-still, gazing into inky nothingness.
“Matches?” I whispered.
Dan fumblingly explored his pockets. “No. You?”
“No,” I said.
“There is a pile of matches on the table. And other candles.”
Before I could utter a word of protest, Dan was gone. I heard him blundering in the darkness, and swearing softly. The very sparseness of the furnishings, the curving, rocky walls, made the table the more elusive.
There was no way in which to orient oneself. One’s grasp closed on vacancy, or touched only on the curving, noncommittal walls. To move at all, as I discovered a moment later, was like stepping off into empty space. For I decided, in my anxiety to locate the matches and be gone, that two could do a better job than one. Dan, still blundering hopelessly, heard me join the search.
“You’d better stand still, Anne. We don’t want to lose the door.”
“It’s right behind me,” I declared, and turned around, and with a sense of shock discovered that the door indeed had disappeared. I felt my way along the curving walls, grew discouraged with that procedure, stepped forward cautiously. With a gasp of satisfaction, I brushed the tumbled bedding of Amos’ cot. The untidy, heaped-up quilts were unmistakable. I knew now, or thought that I knew, in relation to the cot, exactly where to find the table.
Hands outstretched, I groped ahead. Something—the handcuffs, I suppose—clinked, and I stumbled, lost my balance. I didn’t fall. Moving from opposite directions, through the obsidian emptiness, Dan and I had come together.
Miraculously, I found Dan’s hand. His hand firmly closed on mine—a bit too firmly. The sudden pressure almost hurt. I was vaguely surprised that he didn’t speak.
I said a little tartly, “The table is somewhere just ahead.”
I got no response. Only the steady pressure on my fingers told me Dan was there. I jerked a little. My hand was really throbbing.
And then Dan spoke. I heard his voice, but his voice was nowhere near. Dan spoke from distant darkness, from an invisible position that yet was yards away.
“Whatever do you mean—the table’s just ahead? Ahead of what?”
I knew then it wasn’t Dan’s hand that held my own so firmly, that it wasn’t Dan who stood beside me in the darkness.
XXVI
I HAVE NEVER KNOWN SUCH TERROR. I couldn’t move. I tried to scream. Some weak sound must have issued from my lips. Strangling fingers seized my throat, and choked the sound. An iron band seemed to close around my neck.
I couldn’t breathe, my heart was bursting in my chest. Death was in that grip.
Dan called, and called again. I could make no sound. Seconds passed that were like years. I fought frantically for air, and knew that I fought to live. My hands beat empty blackness. It was as though I fought with nothingness.
Queer thoughts shot with dazzling speed through my mind. I knew beyond any possible doubt that our killer had me by the throat. Great-aunt Amanda had died face to face with my invisible antagonist; she had recognized her murderer. I would die, and never know. In the darkness Dan would never find us. He would go on calling frantically, stumbling, blundering, almost within reach, but separated by yards as formidable as miles.
The pressure on my throat increased. My head was bursting, my knees began to sag, my hands dropped limp and nerveless. My consciousness was going fast. Helpless and unprotesting, I was being swept into some vaster darkness. Pinpoints of light danced where no light could be. My ears rang as though distant bells were pealing.
From far off, and shrill and thin, I heard Dan’s frantic voice, his rushing footsteps, a crash. My own combat with the force I couldn’t touch or see had been almost noiseless. But just as Dan reached the scene, he ran into and overturned the table.
What happened next, to this day, remains hopelessly confused in my memory. The strangler, warned by the overturning table, must have turned to meet the new assault. At any rate, the cruel pressure relaxed abruptly. My knees at once gave way. I staggered, fell. Something cold and damp and hard—the floor—pressed against my forehead. Air surged into my lungs. My throat was a band of fire, every breath was torture.
I wanted to lie there forever. Somehow I crawled to my knees.
The darkness was filled with the scuffling sound of twisting, heaving bodies. Dan’s voice I could identify, but there was no second voice. The labored breathing, the confused, continued movement that surged all around me, was as anonymous as was the impenetrable blackness of the cavern. I heard other unidentifiable sounds, punctuated suddenly by another crash. Wood splintered. Something rushed past. I grabbed. My fingers closed on Dan himself, although it was several seconds
before I realized it.
And it was minutes before Dan found matches and a candle. It was then too late. The killer was gone. The darkness that had defeated us at every turn had cloaked the swift retreat. The iron door was open slightly wider, and that was all.
Tangible evidences, however, remained of the short and frightful combat. My throat was swelling visibly, and I could hardly speak above a whisper. A bleeding cut marred Dan’s cheek, his necktie was behind his ear, his coat was torn. The handcuffs were strewn everywhere. One of the cots had been overturned, the table still lay upside down, and beside it the fragments of a shattered chair.
“I—I tried to bludgeon him,” said Dan shakily.
“Him?” I croaked. My voice was like nothing human.
Dan went even paler. He leaned over, and laid his cheek against my hair. He touched my throat with light and tender fingers. I could feel the fingers tremble. For an instant he didn’t speak, nor did I. From darkness we had come back into light, from deadly peril we had returned to the circle of each other’s arms. Finally, Dan assayed a shaky smile.
“You’re a businesslike little party, darling. Do you realize—well, never mind.” His arms held me more closely. “We’re here, and—and fairly whole, even if we don’t know who struck or why. Incredible as it sounds, I can’t actually swear our visitor was a man, though that would be my guess. God, the—the person had the strength of ten.”
It occurred to me that the unknown might have possessed the maniacal strength that sometimes comes with desperation—that strange, inhuman strength that is not the exclusive property of either sex. Horrible as was the thought, it could have been a woman who had gripped me by the throat. I tried again to speak.
Dan put a gentle hand across my mouth.
“Don’t try to talk, sweet. Just sit quietly.” He smoothed my hair. “Let me do the talking. Let me tell you how—how incredibly brave you’ve been, how swell you are. You won’t need to be so brave again ever, Anne. You’re going to be taken care of, darling.”
As I clung to him in remembered terror, I understood that our own investigation had reached its end. The mystery of Aunt Amanda’s death and her father’s death, and Amos and all the rest, had gone beyond our powers of solution. We had definite evidence that the risk was, and had always been, too great. We had proof now, dearly won, with which to convince Sheriff Glick that he must drop his case against Dan at once, and seek his quarry elsewhere.
We would call in the Sheriff now, and let those whose business lay in murder trap a killer—who well might have cost both of us our lives. What had brought the killer to the cavern—the fact that the unknown, like ourselves, had probably come in search of the absent Amos—this was now the affair of Sheriff Glick.
I have very little recollection of our journey to the surface, of the long climb upward dimly lit by the wavering candle, except that it seemed to me I would never breathe fresh air again. When we reached the open air, I collapsed. We were within sight of Hieronomo House—lighted brilliantly from top to bottom— when the long strain suddenly proved to be too much. When there was no further danger, when we were almost within reach of the telephone by which Dan meant to summon Sheriff Glick, I gave a shuddering sigh, and fainted.
In consequence, I didn’t learn until afterwards that there was no need to telephone Sheriff Glick, that he was already in the place, that searching parties hastily organized were beating the grounds, seeking both Dan and myself. As it happened, Sheriff Glick was a member of the group which located us. I was lying on the sodden lawns, totally unconscious. Dan, kneeling at my side and bent over, was attempting frantically to loosen the collar of my blouse.
I suppose I must have remained unconscious for probably thirty minutes. Things happened, and I lay unknowing. I was carried into the house and made comfortable. I remember that I was first aware of heavenly comfort. Sensation returned to me long before my mental processes resumed their work. I felt and heard while my mind still wandered in misty grayness—I felt the blessed cool of wet towels wrapped about my burning throat, heard muted voices. The voices must have puzzled me. They sounded close, and they were familiar. Glenn seemed to be speaking anxiously to Aunt Patience, and she seemed to be anxiously responding.
“She isn’t fit to be questioned until morning. Certainly not without a doctor’s say-so.”
“I agree.” Patience’s tones were clear and definite. There was a movement, as of someone rising. “I’ll speak to Sheriff Glick myself.”
I remembered then. Even as I opened my eyes, I sensed something wrong. Where was Dan? With vague and yet uneasy surprise, I perceived that I was in the drawing room, lying on a divan that had been pulled up before a roaring fire. Blankets muffled me from head to toe. Towels soaked in ice water chilled my throbbing throat. Seated beside the couch was Glenn, his freckles distinct and vivid in his greenish pallor. Firmly, gently, he chafed my wrists. Great-aunt Patience had just risen to her feet.
I even saw—so detached and complete was the first picture presented by returning consciousness—that a pile of luggage was heaped in the foyer. The family was preparing even then to quit Hieronomo House early in the morning. But they couldn’t leave. No one would be permitted to escape until the killer was identified and arrested.
Where was Dan? We must call Sheriff Glick immediately. Why wasn’t Dan beside me? It was Dan I wanted, not Glenn, not Great-aunt Patience. I tried to speak.
“She’s—she’s coming to, Aunt Patience,” cried Glenn. He bent over me. “You’re not to talk, darling, and you’re not to think. You’re safe now. We found you just in time.”
Still I didn’t understand. I didn’t even understand when Patience spoke. She also stooped and whispered, as though I were very ill and she personally had snatched me from the jaws of death.
“The Sheriff is in the library, Anne. But you needn’t worry—he shan’t bother you tonight. No one shall. You’re safe now, dear. We all are safe, thank God. The killer is arrested and under guard.”
And then Sheriff Glick and his party came into the drawing room. Or rather, the Sheriff came. A confused group of men stopped abruptly just beyond the doorway, near the heaped-up luggage. Glick walked straight to the couch.
“Miss Hieronomo, I don’t intend to harry you—or to remind you that long ago I warned you not to put your trust in any murderer. You’ve escaped with your life, and I’m glad of that. You need not attempt to talk tonight. Tomorrow will be quite soon enough. The case is closed. The details can wait.”
I saw Dan then. He had been brought to a forcible halt in the foyer. He stood between two guards, and he was in handcuffs. His voice was desperate.
“These—these fools think I tried to kill you, Anne. They think—oh, God, I believe the whole world’s gone mad!”
“Keep him quiet!” Glick whirled toward the foyer, turned back to me. “It’s impossible, Miss Hieronomo, for you to protect this man any further. We reached you just in time—two minutes more and you’d never have lived to identify your assailant.”
I, too, for a moment, believed that the world was mad.
“You can explain tomorrow,” continued Sheriff Glick, “what you know about the murder of Amanda Silver that made your own death necessary to Daniel Ayres. I realize that you’re too shocked and shaken, that you’re in no condition now to talk.”
I got up violently from the couch. Glenn—his own face suddenly stricken—tried to hold me back. But I was on my feet, staggering toward Dan. Patience and Sheriff Glick exchanged a wordless glance. She stepped in my path.
“Anne, my dear, you must listen. Don’t imagine that we—all of us—don’t pity you from the bottom of our hearts. We understand, we sympathize. But whatever you may once have felt for Dan Ayres, however great your—your misplaced loyalty and affection, you cannot be so foolish as to deny that Dan Ayres tried to kill you, and so nearly succeeded that . . .”
I pushed her aside, and sought to shake off Glenn. He wouldn’t let me go. My voice, further to madden
me, was only a rasping whisper.
“You—all of you—are wrong. Dan didn’t hurt me. It—it was someone in Great-grandfather’s cave. We went there to meet Amos. Dan—didn’t you tell them, Dan?” He couldn’t hear me from where he stood. But he knew what I was saying. He ignored his guards, and spoke again.
“They don’t believe any of our story, Anne.”
I looked around the circle of watching faces, and felt Dan’s own desperation, and felt fury, too. I wanted to knock all those stupid heads together. It seemed to me that Glenn at least must listen. He held my arm but he wouldn’t look at me. I thought then of Amos and croaked the name.
“Call Amos.”
Glenn said heavily, “They’re trying to locate Amos in the village, Anne. The Negro started off for town after dinner. I saw him and he told me he was going there. That makes it difficult to believe he was meeting you or anyone out there in the pines.”
“In the cave,” I croaked. “Amos was to meet us in the cave. Or—or don’t you believe there is a cave?”
Glenn made no reply.
“I wonder,” said Patience slowly, “if Amos has dug out Father’s cave again. I saw him out near the pines only yesterday. He—he disappeared quite suddenly.” That these blind and stupid people should stand there and doubt the very existence of the underground cavern where Dan and I had nearly lost our lives was too much for me to bear. Why should we waste further time in futile argument? Glick had only to go there and examine the scene as Dan must have described it—the overturned cot and table, the scattered handcuffs, the broken chair—to realize the hideous reality of our struggle with the killer.
“Sit down, Miss Hieronomo,” said Sheriff Glick.
I sat. The Sheriff nodded, and Dan was permitted to come in and sit beside me. Glenn and Patience withdrew to the couch, but I knew that she was listening avidly.
The Balcony Page 23
