Murgunstrumm and Others

by Cave, Hugh

  Scowling, Simms put his weight against the door, pushed hard. It refused to budge. Impatiently he fumbled in his pockets for a sharp-pointed instrument, found a pen knife, thrust the small blade into the lock. Five minutes later his forehead was beaded with sweat. He stepped back, mumbled an oath, stared at the door savagely.

  Whoever had built that door had done a thorough job. It was solid, impervious to assault. Nothing but the correct key would open it.

  With a shrug, Simms abandoned the task and paced back to the window. A running start gave him a hand-hold. Cautiously he dragged his lean body through the aperture and stood erect in the snow outside. A quick glance revealed the yard to be deserted.

  He stooped, closed the window carefully, then strode toward the distant wire fence. Half way across the snow-covered lawn he swung about jerkily, stood staring. The rear door of the house had opened. At the foot of the steps stood the one-eyed man, Oleg, glaring viciously.

  Simms hesitated, frowning, then began to walk backwards, slowly, toward the fence. The one-eyed man came with short, quick strides across the yard, his boots kicking snow up in front of him. He said gutturally:

  "Hey, you! You wait a minute!"

  There was no alternative. Simms reached the fence, stood motionless. The one-eyed man strode up to him, glared savagely.

  "So you come back, hey?" the man snarled. "Well, now you stay back. Mr. Sanderson, he don' like snoops. I take you to him and see what he says."

  "You and who else?" Simms said quietly.

  The one-eyed man stiffened, reached out a clawing hand. Simms' clenched fist shot inside the extended arm, made hard, driving contact with the man's jaw. That fist was famous. Oleg stumbled backward, caught himself, hurtled forward again with amazing fortitude. His long arms lashed out to encircle Simms' middle.

  Simms sidestepped, scowling. Twisting free, he brought a pile-driving right hand up from nowhere, buried his knuckles in the one-eyed man's throat. Oleg sprawled backward in the snow, spitting scarlet blood into the white mound thrown up by his shoulders. Next moment the man was on his knees, swaying. With the same amazing display of strength, he stumbled erect again.

  But he had had enough. Retreating from Simms' fists, he turned, waddled quickly toward the house. Simms watched him, bewildered. A shrill whistle tocsinned from the dog-keeper's bruised lips. The whistle was answered by a deep-throated baying sound which brought a glint of understanding to Simms' narrowed eyes.

  What the one-eyed man could not do alone, he intended to do with the help of Sanderson's blood-hungry hounds!

  Simms turned, ran to the fence, hauled himself up and over. Dropping into the deep snow on the far side, he hesitated a moment, weighing his chance. The black coupé was a ten-minute hike distant through the woods—only five minutes by the road. Oleg had vanished around the side of the house. Eleven dogs, Sanderson had said. One man against eleven four-legged man-hunters . . . .

  Simms sucked a deep breath, ploughed swiftly through the banked-up snow, following the fence-line. The gate, the beginning of the road, lay not far distant. He was on the road itself, running along hard-packed ruts, before the yammering of the dogs became audible again behind him. Turning his head, he caught a momentary glimpse of sleek, low-bellied shapes racing across the white lawn toward the gate. The one-eyed man was stumbling after them, intent on opening the barrier and letting the brutes loose.

  Simms ran, breathing heavily, fists clenched, mouth twisted into a scowl. His gaze swept the side of the road, seeking a weapon of defense. He saw one, plunged aside to scoop it up, then ran on again, one hand gripping a bludgeon of heavy pine. In another moment he rounded the bend in the road, saw the car looming ahead.

  He turned then. A sinister snarling sound, behind him, made him realize his danger. Ten paces distant the first of Sanderson's hell-hounds surged into view, fangs gleaming, jaws drooling saliva.

  Simms planted both feet in the snow, set himself. The tawny shape hurtled clear of the ground, lunging upward for his throat. The wooden bludgeon made a sharp whining sound through the air, meeting the brute's charge with a bone-breaking impact. A sickening crunch accompanied contact. The killer stiffened in mid-air, fell at Simms' feet in a twisted heap, writhing.

  But there were more of them than a single bludgeon could take care of. Simms retreated, holding the club in both hands, thrusting, stabbing with it, beating back the hurtling shapes that sought to drag him down. Sanderson had trained those devils well; they went straight for the throat, fangs bared for murder. But the snow hindered them . . . .

  Simms' legs collided with the car's bumper. He turned, leaped swiftly to the running board, jerked the door open. The club descended once more, on an upturned mouth drooling blood and froth. Sweat-drenched and gasping, Simms slid onto the car's cushion, slammed the door shut, jabbed a probing foot at the starter-button.

  Down the road, the one-eyed man came into view, running clumsily on bent legs. He stopped, stood glaring, raised one hamlike fist and shook it sullenly as Simms ground the car in gear. Snarling viciously, Sanderson's four-legged devils clawed at the running-board, seeking vainly to reach the man behind the wheel.

  In reverse, the car groaned down the road, gaining speed, as Simms turned in the seat and scowled through the rear window, watching the ruts. Realizing defeat the dogs fell back. The one-eyed man stood ankle-deep in snow, muttering epithets.

  Simms, guiding the big coupe onto the state road a moment later, put a shaky hand to his forehead to wipe away the perspiration gleaming there, and said aloud through a grim smile:

  "Close. Damned close."

  4. Prisoner

  That night, in the upstairs corridor of Sanderson's big house, the dark-eyed girl stood motionless, rigid, beside a window which overlooked the yard outside. The long corridor was sinister with shadows. Eight hours had passed since the significant visit of Mark Simms.

  Outside, now, pale moonlight blurred the snow-covered yard. Beyond the high fence which enclosed Sanderson's domain, the deep woods were black and close, seeming to hold the isolated house in a tenacious grip. The dark-eyed girl, staring out at the menacing wall of blackness, shuddered involuntarily.

  Eight hours ago she had stood in the same place, fearfully watching an incident which had caused her slender hands to tighten tremblingly on the window-sill. She had seen Simms' brief combat with the dog-keeper, Oleg, and witnessed Simms' escape. Now, pressing her attractive face against the cold window-glass, she saw something else—something which she had apparently been waiting for.

  Outside, near the closed gate, a tiny eye of yellow light glowed in the dark. Enduring but a moment, the glow vanished, then reappeared, then vanished again. Obviously it was a signal.

  The girl turned quickly from the window and paced down the corridor to the head of the stairs. Hesitating a moment, she stared into the gloom below, listening. An hour ago, Sanderson had retired to the laboratory in the cellar. If he had come up again since then. . .

  Evidently he had not. The downstairs rooms were in darkness as she descended the stairs and moved silently toward the front door. The door clicked shut behind her. On the outside steps she hesitated again, peering with narrowed eyes across the deserted yard to where the signal-light had glowed near the gate.

  A moment later she had reached the end of the narrow path and was pushing the gate open with nervous fingers. Sheltered by darkness from the chance gaze of any person in the house, she stared about her, called anxiously in a low voice:

  "Max! Where are you?"

  Something moved in the shadows near the fence. The girl stiffened, stepped backward, then relaxed with an exhalation of relief. A stocky, stoop-shouldered man strode toward her, his face masked by a down-turned hat brim, his thick-set body bundled in a heavy raglan overcoat. His hand found her arm, clung there.

  "This is damned risky business, pal. After this, we've got to find some other way."

  The girl nodded, stared at him. He had a bunched-up face, inclined to fatnes
s. A black, untrimmed mustache gave him a perpetual scowl. Bushy brows protruded over keen dark eyes.

  "The police were here, Max," the girl said stiffly. "That affair of last night—they've linked Sanderson with it. They sent Mark Simms."

  The man named Max was silent a moment, scowling.

  "What else?"

  "I tried again to find out what Sanderson does in the laboratory. It's dangerous. If he begins to suspect me—"

  "Don't gamble."

  "The whole thing is a gamble. Every move I make."

  Max scowled again, made a growling noise in his throat. Sullenly he stared across the yard to where the big house loomed gaunt and silent, guarding its secrets. Max's stumpy fingers closed more firmly over the girl's arm.

  "Listen. I went up to the Hopevale this morning and did some heavy talking. I told them the best way to end this whole business was to call in the police and haul their man back where he came from. They wouldn't listen. Said Sanderson had too much influence and money, couldn't be handled that way. They don't want him; they want the others."

  The girl nodded, bit her lower lip until it was white. She, too, looked toward the big house."

  "It's a strange place, Max."

  "And no place for a kid like you," Max growled. "But what the hell. Be careful, that's all."

  "You'll be back tomorrow night?"

  "Late."

  "Then I'll have another try at getting in that room. It's the only place, Max. The rest of the house is nothing at all. I've been over it from top to bottom. That one room—"

  "Okay, Claire." Max freed the girl's arm, thrust his hand out. "Only for God's sake, go easy. You and me have been pals a long time."

  The girl took his hand, dropped it, turned away. At the gate she stood motionless, peering intently ahead of her, as if dreading her return to Sanderson's huge house. Then she drew a deep breath, slipped quickly through the aperture, ran swiftly down the path to the front door.

  Max stood scowling, his hands buried in the pockets of his heavy overcoat. His eyes narrowed under their bushy brows; he continued to stare, even after the front door of the house had closed on the girl's vanishing figure. Then, muttering through curled lips, he moved sideways, paced slowly along the outside of the high fence, not toward the road but away from it.

  He went slowly, obviously intent on prowling closer to the house. Not long ago, Mark Simms had traversed that same route, on the same mission, and a lighted cellar window had lured Simms over the wall into a terrain of danger. The same window, the same pale glow, caught Max's gaze as he strode cautiously through the deep snow outside the barrier.

  He stopped, pressed himself close to the fence, stood staring. Studying the barrier in both directions, he moved warily toward a place where a man of his short stature could climb over. His dark eyes narrowed with anticipation as he sought a hand-hold.

  Had he been less intent on the problem before him, he might have been aware of something else, something more vital. Behind him, not ten paces distant, a hunched shape stepped suddenly from the shelter of passive pines, stood glaring at him. The watcher's lips hooked into a snarl of silent triumph; his one good eye twitched with the intensity of his gaze. He was Oleg, the dog-keeper.

  Max, failing to turn, reached both hands to the fence, hauled himself up. Then the warning came too late. The sudden rush of heavy feet, breaking the snow-crust behind him, caused him to let go and drop, only to be seized in the embrace of the dog-keeper's outflung arms.

  They were strong arms. Fighting desperately in their cruel grip, Max went limp as a viciously upthrust knee ground into his groin. Stumbling, he collapsed in the deep snow, groaning. The one-eyed man fell upon him.

  There was no resistance, no opportunity for any. Ham-like hands slapped against Max's face, ramming his head down with pile-driver force, even as he struggled weakly, dazedly, to squirm from under his adversary's weight. Grunting, growling with animal fury, Oleg struck again and again, then rocked backwards, glaring.

  Once before, eight hours ago, the one-eyed man had engaged in conflict with a prowling trespasser. The result then had been defeat. Now the result was different, and Oleg's good eye bore a triumphant glint as he stood erect. The battered, bloody face of his opponent stared up at him. Max was unconscious. Mumbling gutturally, Oleg stooped, lifted the limp body to his shoulders, straightened again. Pacing along the fence to the gate, he strode up the path leading to the house and ascended the steps, grunting under Max's dead weight. The front door swung shut behind him. Triumphantly he traversed the inner corridor, entered the small study at the far end, and dumped his burden into a chair.

  He was still standing there, peering down into Max's bloody countenance, when Henry Sanderson came across the threshold behind him.

  Sanderson stopped, drew a sharp breath, stood motionless. He had been smiling quietly to himself when he entered the chamber; now he scowled in bewilderment, looked quickly from Oleg to the man in the chair. Abruptly, harshly he said:

  "What is this man doing here? Who is he?"

  Oleg turned slowly, put a hand to his face and fingered his thick lips before answering.

  "I found him outside."

  "Who is he?"

  "1 don' know. Miss Evans, she was talk to him by the gate, little while ago. Then she sneak back in here, and this man come prowlin' around the fence. I see him from upstairs. I go out the back way without make any noise, and bring him in here."

  Sanderson looked at the prisoner's battered features, then at Oleg's big hands, and nodded understandingly. He paced forward, stared intently at the man in the chair, scowled again.

  "He was talking with Miss Evans?"

  "Yes."

  "You mean he came here to see her, secretly?"

  "Yes."

  Sanderson's eyes narrowed, took on a dull glint of suspicion. He swung about, glaring.

  "Tell Miss Evans to come in here!"

  "Huh?"

  "Go upstairs and tell her to come here!"

  Oleg grinned crookedly. Still grinning, he scuffed over the threshold and down the corridor to the foot of the staircase. Sanderson, standing with hands hipped and legs spread wide, continued to stare at the unconscious prisoner, as if vainly attempting to tag the man with a name.

  Sanderson's normally pale face was even paler than usual. He turned, glared angrily at the doorway, as if impatient to confront the girl whom Oleg had accused. Yet, when the girl did enter the room a moment later, Sanderson's words were calmly spoken, void of any trace of suspicion.

  "We have captured a trespasser, Miss Evans. It occurs to me that perhaps you may know the man."

  Claire Evans stood motionless, looking straight at the man in the chair. Just for an instant her mouth twitched, her slender body stiffened. Then she regained control of herself, frowned in conventional fashion, and paced forward. Eyes narrowed, she gazed into the prisoner's features. Not until she was quite sure that the color had returned to her face, and the tell-tale twitching gone from her mouth, did she turn.

  "Do you suppose he is from the police?" she said, feigning bewilderment.

  "Then you don't know him?"

  "I'm not sure. The face is familiar, but—"

  It was clever acting. The hesitation was far better, far more convincing, than a blunt denial. If Sanderson knew it to be a lie, he gave no indication of so knowing. He, too, could be clever.

  Quietly he strode forward, leaned over the chair, and thrust a hand into the man's coat pocket. Straightening, he carried a worn leather bill-fold to the table. His frown of impatience indicated, on the surface at least, his annoyance at not having thought of such a simple procedure before.

  Methodically he dumped the contents of the bill-fold and examined them. Then he turned, holding a driver's license in his hand. Apparently he was unaware that Claire Evans was staring at him with wide, unblinking eyes.

  "Ferris. Max Ferris." Sanderson mouthed the name as if it were distasteful. "Does that mean anything to you, Miss Evans?" />
  "I'm afraid not," the girl said evenly.

  "Nor to me, either. Why should a man by the name of Max Ferris wish to come prowling about my house like a criminal?"

  "Perhaps he had lost his way," Claire Evans said quickly.

  "Hardly. When he regains consciousness, I shall question him. It is very annoying. You may go now, Miss Evans."

  Claire Evans shot a quick, despairing glance at the limp form in the chair. Slowly she turned away, as if reluctant to leave the man in Sanderson's custody. "Shall you want me again tonight, Mr. Sanderson?"

  "I think not."

  The girl went out, forcing herself to walk, slowly, casually. Sanderson stood watching her with narrowed eyes, and listened to the diminishing sound of her footsteps as she paced down the corridor. Even after the staircase had ceased creaking under the girl's weight, and her footsteps had died to silence in the upper hail, Sanderson remained staring.

  His mouth curled in a slow, sinister smile, full of grim significance. Quietly he turned toward the man in the chair, paced forward, and twined his fingers in the man's black hair, jerking the head back to expose better the battered face.

  "So I have been harboring a snake," he murmured softly. "My very efficient secretary is a colleague of Mr. Max Ferris, who is employed by my erstwhile hosts. That is interesting. Very interesting. It should lead to some rather entertaining developments, Mr. Ferris."

  The prisoner's head slumped down again as Sanderson released it. Turning, Sanderson strode to the door, stood on the threshold, and shouted the name of Oleg, the dog-keeper.

  A moment later, when the one-eyed man scuffed into the room, Sanderson nodded toward the still unconscious prisoner and said softly:

  "Take Mr. Ferris to my laboratory. I shall attend to him later."

  5. Escape and Capture

  Mark Simms, driving an open touring car with State Police insignia painted on its side, brought the car to a stop at the mouth of the narrow road which led through the woods to Sanderson's isolated domain. Pushing the door open, Simms slid from behind the wheel and said quietly to the three men in the car: