by Roy Vickers
“Back! Get back!” Heron strove to say, but the words stuck in his throat. An uncanny horror possessed him.
Then in a flash the horror passed and his blood leapt and sang in a wild desire for possession. He loved her; she should be his—yes, if it cost him his soul!
She smiled, holding out her arms towards him, and then glided towards the door, where she paused. Heron began to fight frantically with his bonds.
“Wait for me!” he panted. “I’m coming, I—”
Out from the velvet shadow that the bookcase cast crept Shore, his body bent nearly double, his fingers outspread and quivering. There was no passion in his eyes—only fear as he followed the beckoning vision.
The staple gave way at last. Flinging aside the rope that had bound his limbs, Heron staggered out into the night, whither the two had gone. His foot tripped, and he measured his length on the ground. The shock sobered him like a sudden drenching of cold water. He rubbed his bleeding, earth-stained hands on his thighs. All the erotic madness had cleared from his mind and reins; he felt weak and sick and miserably desolate. Had he walked in his sleep or what? He shivered, then making a megaphone of his hands, shouted:
“Shore, where are you? Shore?”
The tea-bushes rustled mournfully, a faint breeze stirring their leaves. The breeze passed away, and they swayed back into immobility, with a sound suggesting a great congregation rising up from their knees. Then a long-drawn shriek pierced the silence.
Heron’s blood froze. He stood rooted to the spot. The shriek was repeated, soaring up in an ear-splitting crescendo, and ending with appalling suddenness.
A narrow path zigzagged away from Heron’s feet, the greyish earth gleaming like a snail-track in the rays of the moon. It led to the direction whence the shrieks had come, and Heron moved cautiously along it.
Presently he remembered that he had an electric torch in his pocket. He produced it, and the spear of dancing light that leapt out from it helped his progress. For perhaps ten minutes he walked, calling “Shore! Shore!” at the top of his voice every fifty yards or so. But only vague echoes answered. Presently the earth gleamed no longer under that shaft of brightness.
There was just a black void below it. The path had ended in a precipice.
Lying full length upon the ground, his left hand clutching the stem of a convenient bush, for he was feeling horribly dizzy, Heron probed into the inky depths of the nullah. Something white flickered amid a warty growth of thorns some fifty feet down the side. He flashed the lamp more strongly upon it. Part of a man’s garment. Shore’s?
He rose to his feet, his teeth chattering. Away to the right the descent into the nullah was broken by sundry bushes and sloped down at a climbable angle. Worming his way to this point he commenced to move down the treacherous face to the bottom, and at last he stood amid a confusion of jagged boulders, shingle, shriveled fern, and ankle-deep sand.
Shore was Tony Durward’s brother. That was the fact which more than any other drew him forward over the rocks, through the sand, and through briars and weeds toward the spot where the white rag had flickered. The path slanted downwards, and there was a dank smell of mud and slime. Heron stood still. The tip of the flash-lamp beam touched a dim, huddled mass.
“Shore!” he gasped. “Shore, is that you?”
But Shore uttered no reply. He was lying upon his back, with his legs doubled under him, and his eyes staring up at the stars. When Heron sought to raise him his head slid forward with a jerk upon his chest, like the head of a shot wood-pigeon. The expression of that face would have scared a hangman.
“Neck broken!” breathed Heron, retreating. “He must have tripped and—”
He said no more. In the dead man’s outflung right hand was clutched a woman’s bracelet.
THE HAUNTED CHESSMEN, by E. R. Punshon
Chapter I
The Black Queen
It was in Fred Kerr’s rooms that I saw them first. For a wonder Kerr was by himself; he was the most popular man I ever knew, I think, and it was the rarest thing in the world to find him alone. But that I had done so this evening rather pleased me, for I was very full of my success against Jenoure Baume, and very anxious to tell Kerr all about it. Even he had never yet beaten Jenoure Baume.
Of course, Baume isn’t a master of chess in the sense that are Lasker and Casablanca. Still, for a common or garden player like myself, with a purely local reputation, to beat him is something of an achievement, and I wanted very much to tell Kerr of my success. He was very sympathetic and very interested, and in analyzing the game with me he pointed out a move Jenoure Baume might have made which would almost certainly have cost me my queen. Fortunately Baume had not seen it—nor had I for that matter—and I told Kerr he really ought to go in for chess seriously.
“Not enough open air about it for me,” he answered laughingly. “I’ll take it up when I’m sixty.” When I rose to go he mentioned that the date of his wedding had been fixed for the following month.
I congratulated him warmly—Lady Norah was a charming girl, and the match most suitable in every way—and in one of his little confidential outbursts that everyone found so charming he told me how happy he was and how fortunate he counted himself.
“And is that one of the wedding-presents?” I asked, nodding towards a set of chessmen standing on a board on a small side-table.
I had noticed them as soon as I entered the room. Of Indian workmanship as I guessed, they were very beautifully carved and polished, and when I looked at them again I was conscious of a curious impression. I cannot define it exactly—but it was almost as though they moved and stirred, as though they all watched eagerly, intently. The idle thought came to me that those inanimate carved pieces of polished bone were watching me as a spider from its web watches a fly hovering near.
Vexed with myself for having such foolish fancies—I remember I thought they were due to the strain of my game with Jenoure Baume—I went over to look at them more closely.
“Awfully fine carving!” I said, picking up one of the white pieces. “Indian, isn’t it? Are they a wedding-present?
“No,” Kerr answered. “The fact is, I bought them from poor Will Lathbury’s widow.”
“Oh, indeed!” I said.
I had only met Lathbury once or twice, but, of course, I knew him well by reputation as a sound, steady player, and the mysterious tragedy that had ended his life had been a great shock to me.
“Those were the pieces they found near him,” Kerr added.
Poor Lathbury had been discovered one morning lying dead across his chessboard on which he had apparently been working out some problem, or analyzing a game. The razor with which he had cut his throat was in his hand, and there was no faintest explanation possible of his miserable deed. It was certainly shown in evidence that for a day or two before the end he had seemed slightly worried, and had spoken about some game of chess or problem that appeared to be troubling him. And he had complained of not sleeping very well, a most unusual thing with him. But that was all. The coroner suggested that his mind had become affected by his intense application to his favorite game, but that was all rubbish. However, the jury returned the usual verdict, and there the matter had to rest.
“Are they ivory?” I asked, looking more closely at the piece I was handling.
“Well, the story goes,” answered Kerr, with a touch of hesitation—“the story goes that they are made from human bones.”
“Oh, Lord!” I said, putting down a little quickly the piece I was holding.
“I don’t know if it’s true,” Kerr added, “very likely it isn’t. It may be just a yarn. But the tale is that an Indian Rajah some time in the Middle Ages captured a hated enemy, killed him, and had these made from his bones.”
“Ugh!” I said. “What an idea! What on earth made you get them?”
“Rather too lovely for me,” I said, and I could have sworn that the black queen turned her head and shot at me a glance of malignant and deadly hatred.
Of course, the notion was absurd, and when I looked again I saw the piece as immobile as any other bit of carved bone. And yet when I looked a third time I was once more aware of that air of cruel and furtive waiting as of some evil thing lurking patiently which before had seemed to me to hover over those two double rows of carved figures.
Determined to conquer my fancies I picked up the black queen and, examining it more closely, I thought I made out that it was a trick in the arrangement of the eyes which gave the piece that aspect of alert watchfulness I had noticed.
“Carved out of human bone!” I repeated, weighing the piece in my hand. “What an idea! Well, shall we have a game?”
I thought Kerr looked startled and even a little alarmed. He shook his head quickly without speaking. I felt very relieved; for the idea was powerfully in my mind that it was not against him that I must play, but against some other—some unknown—antagonist.
I said good-night a little hurriedly and took myself off. The fact is, I had wanted to play so badly that I felt that if I stayed there much longer with that black queen in my hand and the pieces drawn up ready, I should find myself making the first move—against Whom, I wondered? Whom or what?
I remember very plainly that as I went out of the room I had a last impression of those pieces drawn up in line as though waiting-waiting with a malign and dreadful patience.
I know my heart was beating faster than usual, and my forehead was a little damp as I came out into the street. The idea was with me that I had escaped some great danger, but what or why I had no idea.
Chapter II
A Soul in Torment
A week or two passed, and I only remembered my experience of that night to be ashamed of the inexplicable agitation I had felt. Then one day I happened to meet Baume. He knew Kerr fairly well, and declared he was wasting on other pursuits talents that had been meant for chess alone. Then I chanced to mention those curious carved bone chessmen.
“He says they are made of human bone,” I remarked, with a laugh. “Gruesome idea, isn’t it?”
To my surprise Baume looked very grave. Apparently the old man knew those chessmen well—and did not like them. Finally he blurted out:
“You tell your friend to drop them in the river. That is best for them.”
Going home that night I noticed on the placard of one of the evening papers, “Mysterious Suicide,” and on that of another, “Strange West End Tragedy.” I paid no attention just then, but the next morning over breakfast I noticed a column headed, “Mysterious Death of Well-known Sportsman,” and, on glancing at it, I saw that it referred to poor Fred Kerr.
He had been found first thing in the morning lying dead with a bullet through his brain. The pistol with which he had committed the miserable deed was still clasped in his right hand, and the account mentioned that the body lay across a chessboard on which the pieces were arranged in what seemed an unfinished game.
It was a frightful shock to me—indeed it must have been so to all who knew Kerr. I could hardly believe that a man so full of life and spirits, so richly dowered with all good gifts, had ended his life in such a way. There was no explanation. At the inquest a verdict of accidental death was returned, the idea being that Kerr had shot himself while cleaning or examining his pistol.
An attempt was made to suggest foul play on the grounds that the position of the pieces on the chessboard showed that a game had just been concluded, that this game must have been played with someone, and that that someone had disappeared and was, therefore, under suspicion.
Conclusive evidence showed, however, that the unhappy man had been alone all that evening. Of course, the position of the pieces might be accounted for in many ways. He might have been working out an end game, or analyzing some position. It was not a problem he had been working on, though, as black was winning and, of course, the problem convention is for white to win.
However, not much attention was paid to the chessmen; and as foul play was ruled out and suicide seemed incredible, the jury fell back on the idea of accident, though there was not the least support for such a theory.
Poor Kerr! I called to leave a wreath and express my sympathy. I asked if I might see my old friend for the last time, and they agreed. With feelings of the utmost sadness I looked my last on my friend’s face, and as I did so there came upon me slowly, irresistibly, the idea that he had died in terror and anguish of soul and body.
I felt this impression slowly invade and possess my mind, till I shook and trembled with the knowledge that I stood in the presence of unnameable dread. I began to edge slowly away towards the door, very slowly, for I knew that if I went quickly my panic would overcome me, and I should run, and I knew that would be very dangerous, fatal perhaps. By an intense effort of will I kept my face towards the bed in which lay That which I no longer regarded as the earthly frame of my friend, but felt was changed into something unspeakably horrible and foul. My hair bristled, the flesh crept upon my bones, I forced myself to keep my eyes fixed steadily on the still form upon the bed, though I was sure it was watching me with an intent and evil patience as a spider in its web watches the fly fluttering near—the very sensation I had had before.
Somehow or another, I don’t know how, I got to the bottom of the stairs. I stood there, a little dizzy, a little faint, trying to recover myself.
Presently I got out into the street somehow or another, and I know that for some time afterwards I had no liking for the dark and no taste for being alone.
Chapter III
The Gates of Hell
Poor Kerr had been the owner of a good many curios he had collected, some of them of value, and when I heard after a time that his friends had decided to sell them at auction, I thought I would go and see if I could pick up some little memento of one I had so much admired and liked.
I bought two rather fine engravings by Meryon; very cheap they were, too. I noticed Mark Norand, the captain of our chess club match team, and after speaking a word or two to him, I was thinking of going when the auctioneer put up the carved bone chessmen.
He did not repeat the tale that they were of human bone—perhaps he thought that wouldn’t sound very attractive, or he may not have known the story—but he laid great emphasis on the excellence of the carving. Mark Norand made the first bid, and I know I was very startled. Somehow I hadn’t thought of anyone actually buying the things. I said to him:
“I wouldn’t have them if I were you.”
He looked at me with rather a puzzled and slightly suspicious air.
“Why, do you want them yourself?” he asked.
“Good heavens, no!” I answered, but I could see he did not quite believe me.
In the auction-room everyone is inclined to be suspicious of everyone else. It is a warfare there without quarter and without scruple. Mark Norand was a friend of mine, but he did not mean to be done out of any bargain that was going. He bought the chessmen for three guineas—cheap enough, considering the excellence of the carving.
He was very pleased with himself and his purchase, and his idea that he had got ahead of me. He asked me to go round and play a game with his new possessions. I refused point blank and he laughed. I think he believed I was a little piqued at losing the chessmen.
We got busier than ever at the office, and I was kept very much occupied for some time. I could not even get a spare hour to slip round to the club for a game, and it was quite by accident
that I happened to hear someone mention Mark Norand and say that he was looking very ill.
I knew where it was he generally lunched. The place was out of the way for me, and I didn’t like the cooking there, but I went the next day. Almost the first man I saw when I entered was Norand. He was sitting at one of the tables with food before him, but he had pushed it away untasted and was pouring over a chess board.
“Hullo, Norand,” I said, “working out a problem?”
He looked up at me. I could not help starting. He was greatly altered, but it was not that I noticed so much as the horrid fear I saw peeping out from his bloodshot eyes and lurking in the new lines that had come about his mouth.
“Oh, you?” he said, and to mingle with the fear I read in his eyes there came a fierce dull resentment, so that he looked at me as though he held me for his deadliest enemy.
“You knew, didn’t you? Why didn’t you tell me?” he demanded.
“Knew what? Tell you what?” I asked.
“Those chessmen,” he muttered, shuddering. He added: “Why did you let me buy them?”
“I told you not to; I warned you,” I said.
“Told me not to, warned me not to!” he repeated, and gave me a look of deadly hate. “If you saw a man knocking at the gate of hell without knowing it, would you just tell him not to do that and then walk away?”
“Why, what’s the matter?” I asked.
He did not answer, and the waiter came up just then. I ordered the first thing I saw on the bill. Norand had become intent on his game again. I noticed it was a position in a game and not a problem he was working at—and the waiter, who knew him as an old customer, and saw I was a friend, observed to me:
“The gentleman’s worrying too much over his chess. He hardly eats anything now.”
“Has he been long like this?” I asked.