Meet a Dark Stranger

by Jennifer Wilde

  I stepped into the clearing. Shrouded in shadows, the sagging roof with its great hole and crazily tilting chimneys silhouetted against a blue-black sky, the house seemed to emanate pure evil, the very air around it heavy with sinister foreboding. The broken windows were even more like eyes, watching me, daring me to step inside, and the dark, gaping doorway was like a wide mouth, eager to swallow me up. Darkening orange sunlight spilled into the clearing, emphasizing the heavy shadows, and the ivy festooning the place was like a clinging black fungus. The broken veranda roof tilted down, about to cave in. I stood just inside the clearing, staring at the house, breathing more easily now, trying to summon enough courage to step through that doorway. I wasn’t nearly as brave as I had felt earlier. In the back of my mind I had thought I would run into the man in the green cap and explain my mission to him, have him accompany me into the house, but he had been nowhere in sight.

  That worried me. He should have been there in the fields, the binoculars around his neck. Perhaps he had been in the woods scouting around, I thought. But, if so, surely he would have heard me. It was puzzling. What could have happened to him? Behind me, the woods were still, that curious silence prevailing. It prevailed here in the clearing, too. The house was silent, watching me, waiting for me to … Nonsense, I told myself firmly. The policeman had simply failed to see me, or hear me, and as for the house, I couldn’t give way to nervous fancies, not now, not when I had almost achieved my goal. I had come this far. I couldn’t turn back now. The notebook was here. It was just a matter of finding it.

  I pulled myself together. I set my mouth in a determined line. I moved up the broken steps and passed through the yawning doorway.

  The hall was much darker than it had been that other time, but I could still see the peeling wallpaper, the billowing cobwebs. The horrible, fetid odor was even worse than I remembered, the odor of mildew and rotting wood. There were a great many footprints on the dusty floor, left there by the police who had searched here earlier, and dust stirred as I searched for the notebook. It hadn’t been near the steps, nor had it been On the veranda. It wasn’t here, either. It must be in that other room, the one with the large, gaping hole in the floor. A great cascade of wavering light poured down through the hole in the ceiling, glowing dark orange and causing frenzied shadows to dance on the decaying walls.

  Strangely enough, the light spilling down and the shadows it caused made it more difficult to see the floor in here than it had been to see the darker floor in the hallway. Bending down, I strained my eyes, examining the litter. I saw the old rusty cans, the chunks of decayed wood, the cigarette butts and the paper Becky had commented on. The newspaper was already yellowing at the edges. Moving to the other side of the room, ever conscious of that great, jagged hole yawning in the middle of the floor, I peered anxiously down. An empty sardine can, a crumpled cigarette package, another chunk of wood … the notebook. Filled with a sense of triumph, I seized it. I had been right after all. I was eager to get back to the house now, eager to read it … I paused, frowning. A memory tugged at the back of my mind, bothering me, and at first I didn’t know what it was. Something I had just seen, something I should have connected with an earlier observation … Brow creased, I tried to remember what it was, and the memory evaded me for a moment more.

  Then it came.

  My heart seemed to stop beating. No, I told myself. No, no, it can’t be. I must have been mistaken. I moved back across the room. I stared down at the cigarette butts on the floor, and there was no mistake. One of them had a narrow gold band around it. My knees seemed to go weak. I shook my head, trying to deny it, trying to tell myself it couldn’t be. It was true. Here was proof. “They’re a special brand,” he had told me. “I order them from France. … I only smoke when I’m under stress.” And he must have been under stress when he met George Larson here, when he learned that the briefcase was missing. He must have been under a great deal of stress.…

  I caught my lower lip between my teeth. There were tears in my eyes. I couldn’t believe it. The enormity of it was too great. He couldn’t be that vile, not he, not Ron.… Several minutes passed, and the light pouring down was much darker, the shadows more profuse. The old house was silent, surrounding me, the malevolent atmosphere stirring in the air like a tangible substance. I seemed unable to move, paralyzed with shock, and then I heard someone coming slowly, heavily up the front steps. The man in the green cap, I thought, rushing into the hall. I would tell him. He would radio the police station. There was no time to lose …

  “Hello, Jane,” he said. His voice was soft, mellifluous, a beautiful voice.

  I couldn’t speak. He stood there in the doorway, silhouetted tall and dark against the orange light outside. I couldn’t see his features, but he could see mine. He could see the horror in my eyes. There would be no use to try and deceive him, try to pretend I didn’t know. A long minute passed. He stood in the doorway, blocking my exit, and when he spoke again that lovely voice sounded sad.

  “So you guessed? I’m sorry.”

  “Becky—” I whispered.

  “She’s perfectly all right—at least for the time being. She’s in one of the rooms upstairs, asleep on a pile of old potato sacks. I had to drug her. She was much too vocal.”

  “You—”

  “A most ingenious child,” he remarked quietly. “She came here this morning, somehow or other slipping past the man on watch in the fields. I was here with one of my boys, holding a very important meeting, and I discovered her eavesdropping. I couldn’t have that, naturally. I sent Ralph to get a sleeping drug—nice touch that. When the police came to search later on, she was fast asleep in the basement, hidden behind the rubbish there. I was with her, watching them, and later, when they left, I took her back upstairs and placed her on the pile of sacks. I wanted her to be comfortable. You see, I do have a heart.”

  “You—you’re a fiend—”

  “Now, now, no need to be vindictive. I had to do something with her. Ralph was giving me a progress report, and she heard every word. Capable chap, Ralph, one of my best boys—perhaps you remember him, a fellow named Ralph Gregory.”

  “The boy at the dance. The boy with Cynthia—”

  “He had the rather unpleasant task of keeping an eye on her after I’d—uh—severed relations. Quite a handful, that girl. I feared she’d talk, sooner or later, and when I saw her speaking to you at the dance I knew the time had come to shut her up. You don’t know how near you came to death yourself, Jane. I thought for a minute you’d spotted me in the hall, but fortunately I was mistaken.”

  He spoke softly, casually, almost as though we were having a friendly chat, speaking of the murder as though it were some trifling incident, hardly worth mentioning. He was completely amoral. He was simply incapable of differentiating between right and wrong. Brutal murder, abducting a child, enslaving young people on drugs: it meant no more to him than buying a new shirt or driving a car. I was filled with horror, horror so great that it had a numbing effect. The gentle voice, the casual manner were far more chilling than outright menace could have been. I felt I was going to faint, but I didn’t, I couldn’t. Becky was here, and I had to save her. Somehow, I had to save her.

  Keep him talking. I must keep him talking. Someone would come. Someone was bound to come. Stephen, the policeman with the binoculars, someone … He intended to kill me, and then he would kill Becky, too. I had to stall him, hold him at bay for as long as possible.

  “You—you’re not an athletics instructor,” I said, my voice trembling. “That’s merely a front—”

  “You’re right, luv. A damned good front. Gives me quite an in with the students, enables me to make the best contacts. A brilliant stroke on my part, don’t you think? The previous athletics instructor left, and I applied for the job—in person. I brought along a quite convincing portfolio of forged papers enumerating my previous positions with various educational institutes, attesting to my skill. Fortunately, they never checked the referenc
es. I dazzled them with my charm, you see, and I agreed to take the position at a most shocking cut in salary, just to be affiliated with a fine old university like Abbotstown. They could hardly believe their good fortune.”

  “You came here to—”

  “To set up the organization, build up a healthy supply of steady customers, find two or three likely lads to join the ranks. That was the easiest part. There are always lads like Ralph—poor, unable to wear flashy clothes, drive flashy cars—willing to do anything for money. Ralph’s my best boy, totally unscrupulous, as cold-blooded as they come. He’ll be in complete command here after I leave.”

  “You—never intended to stay.”

  “No, luv. My job’s almost done. Ralph and the other two are already recruiting customers. Before the summer’s over, I’ll be long gone. It will mean a new name—I rather fancied Ron, one of my favorites, but I never liked being a blond.”

  “I can’t believe this. I—you seemed so—”

  “Oh, I’m good. Quite convincing at any role I choose to play. Perhaps I should have been an actor—no money there, though, not unless you’re on top, and it takes too much time and too much hard work to get there.”

  “This is easier,” I said.

  “Much easier.”

  “You don’t see anything wrong with murder, either.”

  “Sometimes it’s necessary.”

  “You—murdered Cynthia and—and Bob Hamilton—and Larson.”

  “Hamilton was a busybody, snooping around, trying to foul up the works for me. I met Cynthia my first day here, you see, and she was just the sort I go for. The boy was jealous, and when he discovered she was on drugs he was determined to expose me. I had to kill him. I made it look like an accident. Larson was another matter. I enjoyed killing him. It was pure pleasure—don’t know when I’ve enjoyed anything more than those few minutes it took me to crush the life out of him. He was a fool, a blundering fool. A briefcase full of drugs, worth a fortune, and he loses it! Incredible! He panicked, tried to break into your house—he was a doomed man. As soon as he opened that briefcase and I saw the manuscript with your name on it, he was a doomed man.”

  He shook his head slowly, peering down at the dusty floor thoughtfully. My eyes had grown accustomed to the dimness now, and I could see his face clearly. He wore a bemused expression, a slight crease between his brows, his wide, sensual mouth drooping down at the corners. I was numb with terror. It was impossible to believe he could be standing there, speaking so calmly, entirely unruffled at the thought of what he had done, what he intended to do as soon as the fancy took him, as soon as he grew bored with talking about his accomplishments. He folded his arms across his chest and leaned one shoulder against the doorframe, gazing at me.

  “I was rather pleased with that particular job,” he continued in the same chilling voice. “I told Georgie to meet me in the grove of trees behind the playing field at eight thirty, told him to make certain no one saw him. I knew he’d be there. I took the boys out early in the morning as usual—several good prospective customers there, incidently, only reason I went to all that bother—and I put them through their paces, gave them a few new exercises to do. It was going on eight by the time we finished, and I suggested an impromptu game of ball. They were delighted. At eight thirty, I hurled the ball into the trees, seemingly by accident, apologized for my clumsiness and told the boys I’d fetch it myself. Georgie was waiting by a clump of bushes. I smiled at him. Then I grabbed him by the throat. He never had a chance to cry out. Most exhilarating experience, killing that bastard. When he was dead, I shoved him under the bushes, found the ball and joined the boys back on the field. Wasn’t gone more than five minutes in all. Shortly afterward the game broke up and everyone went home.”

  “You knew—all along you knew I had the briefcase.”

  “I knew it before you did, luv. I knew I had to get it, but I wasn’t about to do anything so clumsy as trying to break into the house. No, there was a better way, and you played along beautifully. I wooed you, luv, and I had you going—sooner or later I’d have had an opportunity to fetch the case without any fuss or bother. Unfortunately, you opened it. It wasn’t until last night that I realized you’d informed the police. That guy you were talking to at the dance, I spotted him right away as a cop, and I knew I’d have to change my tactics.”

  “So—so you kidnapped Becky.”

  “That happened purely by chance. When she dropped into my hands, so to speak, I realized what a break it was. I knew the police were in on it, but I figured with a child’s life at stake they’d relinquish the briefcase. I sent Ralph to make the anonymous call, and later on, after the police had come and gone without finding anything, I went on to my office, killed a couple of hours and went home. I figured I’d better play it close. I phoned you, asked you out to dinner, knowing full well you wouldn’t accept. Clever of me, what?”

  “You won’t get away with this, Ron. Surely—surely you must realize that.”

  “I won’t get the drugs back. Not now. I’m resigned to that. I’ll simply have to take the loss. Well—” He paused, looking at me with a bored expression. “Might as well get it over with, hadn’t we? I hope you’re not going to make it difficult for yourself.”

  He moved toward me, slowly, bored. I couldn’t move. I stared at him, shaking my head, unable to speak.

  “Actually, I didn’t intend to kill you until you brought the briefcase tonight,” he said chattily, “but you brought this on yourself. I saw you out in the back garden, prowling around, and then you started across the fields. I knew where you were going. Couldn’t have you finding the child. That would have spoiled everything. Incidently, don’t expect any last minute rescue—” He was a yard away from me now. He stopped, a smile playing on his lips. “That cop, the one in the woods with the funny green cap. He didn’t see you, but he saw me. He won’t be coming to your aid, luv.”

  He stepped over to me, standing directly in front of me. He placed his hands on my shoulders, gently massaging the flesh. I was trembling violently. The smile spread wide over his lips, and his dark eyes were full of amusement.

  “Let’s see—” he speculated. “I’ll take you up to the first storey—into the room with the hole in the floor. It’s a good thirty-foot drop from there to the basement. You’ll land on that heap of lumber. Why don’t you scream, Jane? None of the others had time to, but you can scream all you like.”

  “You’re insane—” I whispered.

  “You don’t really believe that, luv.” Smiling, he stroked my cheek with his fingertips. “I’m just a bloke who does what he has to do in order to get along. I had to kill the others, and I have to kill you. Don’t be so upset about it.”

  He wrapped his fingers around my wrist in an ironlike grip.

  “Come along,” he said gently. “We’ve wasted enough time.”

  He started up the wide, rickety wooden staircase, pulling me along behind him. The stairs creaked, wobbled. I felt sure they would collapse under our weight. I stumbled, falling against the wall, panting. Ron gave my wrist a violent jerk. White-hot pain shot through me. I didn’t cry out. I was sobbing, my eyes full of tears. Tears streamed down my cheeks in salty rivulets. He moved on up the stairs, unconcerned, dragging me after him. The bannister had long since rotted away. One of the stairs splintered as I stepped on it. We reached the landing and he dragged me into the room directly above the one where I had found the notebook. I was still clutching that notebook. It dropped from my hand as Ron gave my arm another savage wrench.

  The room was ablaze with the final burst of sunset, brilliant orange rays spilling profusely through the hole in the roof. I didn’t try to struggle any longer. All life seemed to have gone out of me already. I was numb, too numb to plead, too numb to think. Loosening his grip somewhat, he led me over to the edge of the hole. Rotten boards hung down around the sides. The floor seemed to rock as we moved across it. Ron peered down at the heap of shattered lumber far, far below. He nodded to himse
lf.

  “Yes, this will not be unpleasant.”

  “No, Ron, you—you—”

  “Why don’t you scream? I’d like that. Scream. Struggle. Make it more interesting.”

  “Please—”

  “First you,” he said, “and then the kid. After that, I’d better go check on that cop in the woods, make sure he’s dead. Can’t have any loose ends—”

  He cut himself short. There was a loud shout, a crash of footsteps rumbling into the hall. The numbness left me. I cried out. I don’t know what gave me the strength, but I pulled away from him, broke his grip. I stumbled backward, away from that hole. Ron turned, startled. There was a great groaning noise, followed by a noise like heavy paper tearing. I saw him lose his balance and throw up his arms as the floor gave way beneath him. His scream was shrill, echoing through the house, and it seemed to go on for a long time—until that deafening crash ended it.

  Stephen raced into the room, his face the color of chalk. I was backed against the wall, staring at the hole. It was much wider now. Stephen stopped. He looked at me. Then, cautiously, he stepped over to the edge of the hole and peered down. I saw him wince. He moved away.