“Kill me,” she answered fiercely. “Kill me now, while yet there is time. See, I have brought you this”—from the folds of her scanty sarong she drew a native kris, a wavy-bladed short sword with a razor edge and needle point.
“Stab me with it,” she besought, “then, if you wish, use it on your friend and yourself; there is no other hope. Look about you, do not you see there is no way of dying in this prison room? Once on a time the mirror was of glass, but a captive white man broke it and almost succeeded in cutting his wrists with the pieces until he died. Since then Goonong Besar has had a metal mirror in this room.”
“Pardieu, you are right, child!” de Grandin agreed as he glanced at the dressing table over which the metal mirror hung. “But why do you seek death? Are you, too, destined for the octopus?”
She shuddered. “Some day, perhaps, but while I retain my beauty there is small fear of that. Every day old Umera, the one-eyed she-devil, teaches me to dance, and when I do not please her (and she is very hard to please) she beats me with bamboo rods on the soles of my feet till I can scarcely bear to walk. And Goonong Besar makes me dance for him every night till I am ready to drop, and if I do not smile upon him as I dance, or if I grow weary too soon, so that my feet lag before he gives me permission to stop, he beats me.
“Every time a ship is caught in his trap he saves some of the officers and makes me dance before them, and I know they are to be fed to the fish-devil, yet I must smile upon them, or he will beat me till my feet bleed, and the old woman will beat me when he is weary of it.
“My father was French, Monsieur, though I, myself, was born in England of a Spanish mother. We lost all our money in the war, for my father kept a goldsmith’s shop in Rheims, and the sale boche stole everything he had. We came to the islands after the war, and my father made money as a trader. We were returning home on the Dutch ship Van Damm when Goonong Besar caught her in his trap.
“Me he kept to be taught to dance the dances of the islands and to be tortured—see, he has put a ring in my nose, like a native woman’s.” She lifted a trembling hand to the wooden peg which kept the hole pierced in her nose from growing together when she was not wearing her jeweled stud. “My father—oh, God of Israel!—he fed to the devil-fish before my eyes and told me he would serve me the same way if I proved not submissive to his will in all things.
“And so, Monsieur,” she ended simply, “I would that you cause me to die and be out of my unhappiness.”
As the girl talked, de Grandin’s face registered every emotion from amazement to horror and compassion. As she completed her narrative he looked thoughtful. “Wait, wait, my pretty one,” he besought, as she would have forced the kris into his hand. “I must think. Pardieu! Jules de Grandin, you silly fool, you must think now as never before.” He sank his face in his hands and bowed his chin nearly to his knees.
“Tell me, my little cabbage,” he demanded suddenly, “do they let you out of this accurst house by daylight, hein?”
“Oh, yes,” she responded. “I may go or come as I will when I am not practicing my dances or being beaten. I may go anywhere on the island I wish, for no one, not even the cannibals who live on the shore, would dare lay his little finger on me for fear of the master. I belong to Goonong Besar, and he would feed anyone who touched his property to the great fish-devil.”
“And why have you never sought to die by your own hand?” de Grandin asked suspiciously.
“Jews do not commit suicide,” she answered proudly. “To die by another’s hand is not forbidden—Jephthah’s daughter so died—but to go from life with your hands reddened with your own blood is against the law of my fathers.”
“Ah, yes, I understand,” he agreed with a short nod. “You children of Jacob shame us so-called Christians in the way you keep your precepts, child. Eh bien, ’tis fortunate for all us you have a strong conscience, my beautiful.
“Attend me: In your walks about this never-enough-to-be-execrated island have you observed, near the spot where the masts which carry the false ship’s lights stand, certain plants growing, plants with shining leaves and a fruit like the unripe apple which grows in France—a low bush with fruit of pale green?”
The girl wrinkled her white forehead thoughtfully, then nodded twice. “Yes,” she replied, “I have seen such a plant.”
“Très bien,” he nodded approvingly, “the way from this evil place seems to open before us, mes amis. At least, we have the sporting chance. Now listen, and listen well, my little half-orange, for upon your obedience rests our chance of freedom.
“Tomorrow, when you have a chance to leave this vestibule of hell, go you to the place where those fruits like apples grow and gather as many of them as you can carry in your sarong. Bring these fruits of the Cocculus indicus to the house and mash them to a pulp in some jar which you must procure. At the dinner hour, pour the contents of that jar into the water where dwells the devil-fish. Do not fail us, my little pigeon, for upon your faithful performance of your trust our lives, and yours, depend, pardieu! If you do but carry out your orders we shall feed that Monsieur Octopus such a meal as he will have small belly for, parbleu!
“When you have poured all the crushed fruit into the water, secret yourself in the shadows near by and wait till we come. You can swim? Good. When we do leap into the water, do you leap also, and altogether we shall swim to that boat I was about to borrow when we met this so excellent Monsieur Goonong-Besar-James-Abingdon-Richardson-Devil. Cordieu, I think that Jules de Grandin is not such a fool as I thought he was!
“Good night, fairest one, and may the God of your people, and the gentle Mary, too, guard you this night, and all the nights of your life.”
8
“GOOD EVENING, GENTLEMEN,” GOONONG Besar greeted as we entered the dining room next evening; “have you decided upon our little proposition?”
“But certainly,” de Grandin assured him. “If we must choose between a few minutes’ conversation with the octopus and a lifetime, or even half an hour’s sight of your neither-black-nor-white face, we cast our vote for the fish. He, at least, does what he does from nature; he is no vile parody of his kind. Let us go to the fish-house tout vite, Monsieur. The sooner we get this business completed, the sooner we shall be rid of you!”
Goonong Besar’s pale countenance went absolutely livid with fury. “You insignificant little fool,” he cried, “I’ll teach you to insult me! Ha-room!” he sent the call echoing through the marble-lined cave. “You’ll not be so brave when you feel those tentacles strangling the life out of your puny body and that beak tearing your flesh off your bones before the water has a chance to drown you.”
He poured a string of burning orders at his two guards, who seized their rifles and thrust them at us. “Off, off to the grotto!” he shrieked, beside himself with rage. “Don’t think you can escape the devil-fish by resisting my men. They won’t shoot to kill; they’ll only cripple you and drag you to the pool. Will you walk, or shall we shoot you first and pull you there?”
“Monsieur,” de Grandin drew himself proudly erect, “a gentleman of France fears no death a Malay batard can offer. Lead on!”
Biting his pale lips till the blood ran to keep from screaming with fury, Goonong Besar signaled his guards, and we took up our way toward the sea monster’s lair.
“La bon Dieu grant la belle juive has done her work thoroughly,” de Grandin whispered as we came out upon the balcony. “I like not this part of our little playlet, my friend. Should our plan have failed, adieu.” He gave my hand a hasty pressure.
“Who goes first?” Goonong Besar asked as we halted by the balustrade.
“Pardieu, you do!” de Grandin shouted, and before anyone was aware of his intention he dashed one of his small hard fists squarely into the astonished half-caste’s face, seized him about the waist and flung him bodily into the black, menacing water below.
“In, Friend Trowbridge!” he called, leaping upon the parapet. “Dive and swim—it is our only chance!
”
I waited no second bidding, but jumped as far outward as possible, striking out vigorously toward the far end of the cave, striving to keep my head as near water level as possible, yet draw an occasional breath.
Horror swam beside me. Each stroke I took I expected one of the monster’s slimy tentacles to seize me and drag me under; but no great, gray bubble rose from the black depths, no questing arms reached toward me. For all we could observe to the contrary, the pool was as harmless as any of the thousands of rocky caves which dot the volcanic coast of Malaya.
Bullets whipped and tore the water around us, striking rocky walls and singing off in vicious ricochets; but the light was poor, and the Malay marksmen emptied their pieces with no effect.
“Triomphe!” de Grandin announced, blowing the water from his mouth in a great, gusty sigh of relief as we gained the shingle outside the cave. “Miriam, my beautiful one, are you with us?”
“Yes,” responded a voice from the darkness. “I did as you bade me, Monsieur, and the great fish-devil sank almost as soon as he thrust his snake-arms into the fruit as it floated on the water. But when I saw he was dead I did not dare wait; but swam out here to abide your coming.”
“It is good,” de Grandin commended. “One of those bullets might easily have hit you. They are execrable marksmen, those Malays, but accidents do occur.
“Now, Monsieur,” he addressed the limp bundle he towed behind him in the water, “I have a little business proposition to make to you. Will you accompany us, and be delivered to the Dutch or British to be hanged for the damned pirate you are, or will you fight me for your so miserable life here and now?”
“I cannot fight you now,” Goonong Besar answered, “you broke my arm with your cowardly jiu jitsu when you took advantage of me and attacked me without warning.”
“Ah, so?” de Grandin replied, helping his captive to the beach. “That is unfortunate, for—Mordieu, scoundrel, would you do so!”
The Eurasian had suddenly drawn a dagger from his coat and lunged viciously at de Grandin’s breast.
With the agility of a cat the Frenchman evaded the thrust, seized his antagonist’s wrist, and twisted the knife from his grasp. His foot shot out, he drove his fist savagely into Goonong’s throat, and the half-caste sprawled helplessly on the sand.
“Attend Mademoiselle!” de Grandin called to me. “It is not well for her to see what I must do here.”
There was the sound of a scuffle, then a horrible gargling noise, and the beating of hands and feet upon the sands.
“Fini!” de Grandin remarked nonchalantly, dipping his hands in the water and cleansing them of some dark stains.
“You …?” I began.
“Mais certainement,” he replied matter-of-factly. “I slit his throat. What would you have? He was a mad dog; why should he continue to live?”
Walking hurriedly along the beach, we came to the little power-boat moored in the inlet and set her going.
“Where to?” I asked as de Grandin swung the trim little craft around a rocky promontory.
“Do you forget, cher Trowbridge, that we have a score to settle with those cannibals?” he asked.
We settled it. Running the launch close inshore, de Grandin shouted defiance to the Papuans till they came tumbling out of their cone-shaped huts like angry bees from their hives.
“Sa ha, messieurs,” de Grandin called, “we give you food of another sort this night. Eat it, sacré canaille; eat it!” The Lewis machine-gun barked and sputtered, and a chorus of cries and groans rose from the beach.
“IT IS WELL,” HE announced as he resumed the wheel. “They eat no more white women, those ones. Indeed, did I still believe the teachings of my youth, I should say they were even now partaking of the devil’s hospitality with their late master.”
“But see here,” I demanded as we chugged our way toward the open water, “what was it you told Miriam to put in the water where the octopus was, de Grandin?”
He chuckled. “Had you studied as much biology as I, Friend Trowbridge, you would recognize that glorious plant, the Cocculus indicus, when you saw it. All over the Polynesian islands the lazy natives, who desire to obtain food with the minimum of labor, mash up the berry of that plant and spread it in the water where the fish swim. A little of it will render the fish insensible, a little more will kill him as dead as the late lamented Goonong Besar. I noticed that plant growing on the island, and when our lovely Jewess told me she could go and come at will I said to me, ‘By the George, why not have her poison that great devil-fish and swim to freedom?’ Voilà tout!”
A PASSING DUTCH STEAMER PICKED us up two days later.
The passengers and crew gaped widely at Miriam’s imperial beauty, and wider still at de Grandin’s account of our exploits. “Pardieu!” he confided to me one night as we walked the deck, “I fear those Dutchmen misbelieve me, Friend Trowbridge. Perhaps I shall have to slit their ears to teach them to respect the word of a Frenchman.”
IT WAS SIX MONTHS later that a Western Union messenger entered my consulting room at Harrisonville and handed me a blue-and-white envelope. “Sign here,” he ordered.
I tore the envelope open, and this is what I read:
Miriam made big sensation in Folies Bérgères tonight. Felicitations.—de Grandin
The House of Horror
“Morbleu, FRIEND TROWBRIDGE, HAVE a care,” Jules de Grandin warned as my lurching motor car almost ran into the brimming ditch beside the rain-soaked road.
I wrenched the steering wheel viciously and swore softly under my breath as I leaned forward, striving vainly to pierce the curtains of rain which shut us in.
“No use, old fellow,” I confessed, turning to my companion, “We’re lost; that’s all there is to it.”
“Ha,” he laughed shortly, “do you just begin to discover that fact, my friend? Parbleu, I have known it this last half-hour.”
Throttling my engine down, I crept along the concrete roadway, peering through my streaming windshield and storm curtains for some familiar landmark, but nothing but blackness, wet and impenetrable, met my eyes.
Two hours before, that stormy evening in 192–, answering an insistent ’phone call, de Grandin and I had left the security of my warm office to administer a dose of toxin anti-toxin to an Italian laborer’s child who lay, choking with diphtheria, in a hut at the workmen’s settlement where the new branch of the railroad was being put through. The cold, driving rain and the Stygian darkness of the night had misled me when I made the detour around the railway cut, and for the past hour and a half I had been feeling my way over unfamiliar roads as futilely as a lost child wandering in the woods.
“Grace à Dieu,” de Grandin exclaimed, seizing my arm with both his small, strong hands, “a light! See, there it shines in the night. Come, let us go to it. Even the meanest hovel is preferable to this so villainous rain.”
I peeped through a joint in the curtains and saw a faint, intermittent light flickering through the driving rain some two hundred yards away.
“All right,” I acquiesced, climbing from the car, “we’ve lost so much time already we probably couldn’t do anything for the Vivianti child, and maybe these people can put us on the right road, anyway.”
Plunging through puddles like miniature lakes, soaked by the wind-driven rain, barking our shins again and again on invisible obstacles, we made for the light, finally drawing up to a large, square house of red brick fronted by an imposing white-pillared porch. Light streamed out through the fanlight over the white door and from the two tall windows flanking the portal.
“Parbleu, a house of circumstance, this,” de Grandin commented, mounting the porch and banging lustily at the polished brass knocker.
I wrinkled my forehead in thought while he rattled the knocker a second time. “Strange, I can’t remember this place,” I muttered. “I thought I knew every building within thirty miles, but this is a new one …”
“Ah bah!” de Grandin interrupted. “Always you
must be casting a wet blanket on the parade, Friend Trowbridge. First you insist on losing us in the midst of a sacré rainstorm, then when I, Jules de Grandin, find us a shelter from the weather, you must needs waste time in wondering why it is you know not the place. Morbleu, you will refuse shelter because you have never been presented to the master of the house, if I do not watch you, I fear.”
“But I ought to know the place, de Grandin,” I protested. “It’s certainly imposing enough to …”
My defense was cut short by the sharp click of a lock, and the wide, white door swung inward before us.
We strode over the threshold, removing our dripping hats as we did so, and turned to address the person who opened the door.
“Why …” I began, and stared about me in open-mouthed surprise.
“Name of a little blue man!” said Jules de Grandin, and added his incredulous stare to mine.
AS FAR AS WE could see, we were alone in the mansion’s imposing hall. Straight before us, perhaps for forty feet, ran a corridor of parquetry flooring, covered here and there by rich-hued Oriental rugs. White-paneled walls, adorned with oil paintings of imposing-looking individuals, rose for eighteen feet or so to a beautifully frescoed ceiling, and a graceful curving staircase swept upward from the farther end of the room. Candles in cut glass sconces lighted the high-ceilinged apartment, the hospitable glow from a log fire burning under the high white marble mantel lent an air of homely coziness to the place, but of anything living, human or animal, there was no faintest trace or sign.
Click! Behind us, the heavy outer door swung to silently on well-oiled hinges and the automatic lock latched firmly.
“Death of my life!” de Grandin murmured, reaching for the door’s silver-plated knob and giving it a vigorous twist. “Par la moustache du diable, Friend Trowbridge, it is locked! Truly, perhaps it had been better if we had remained outside in the rain!”
“Not at all, I assure you, my dear sir,” a rich mellow voice answered him from the curve of the stairs. “Your arrival was nothing less than providential, gentlemen.”
The Best of Jules de Grandin Page 6