“I came over to clean up and finish off my report about an hour ago,” he said. “The place is locked, because the mortuary is outside Halloran’s jurisdiction.”
Halloran was the uniform sergeant in charge of the Oak Point station.
“Well?” Oates queried, watching the doctor’s face intently. There was a pallor about the cheeks and a deep seriousness in back of the eyes that hadn’t been there before.
“I’d just like you to look at this,” Lancaster said.
He led the way down between the mortuary tables to a more secluded area where a tap dripped into a white porcelain sink with a melancholy sound in the silence.
The back door was hanging askew on its hinges and there was the smell of burning in the air. Oates gave a small exclamation as he knelt and looked at the half-melted and buckled metal of the hinges and door-lock.
“Curious, eh?” said the doctor solemnly. “Who’d want to rob this place?”
Oates stood up, dusting the knee of his trousers.
“There’s been a robbery, then?”
“Oh, yes. Police evidence.”
Oates followed the other’s eyes to where drag-marks went across the concrete path to a woodland area fringing the swamp. He followed them down, keeping in the light spilling past the wrecked door, conscious now of a bitter pungency. He noticed slime then, on the edge of the concrete path, and again caught a nauseous stench. The doctor had joined him.
“It won’t be any use following,” he said wearily. “That way leads only to the swamp. That’s where they’ve taken Conley.”
The detective looked at him, momentarily struck dumb.
“The corpse?” he said wonderingly. “But who’d want a corpse?”
Lancaster shrugged, edging back toward the lit sanity of the police station.
“No one in their senses. But we aren’t dealing with the normal. That body represented evidence. Evidence of something abnormal. Now it’s disappeared.”
Oates said nothing. He glanced at a piece of paper the doctor held out to him. It had crude lettering scribbled on it in an illiterate hand; Oates made out the roughly formed sentence: DON’T MEDDLE WITH THINGS THAT DON’T CONCERN YOU.
He reached out for the paper to examine it more closely when a sudden wind sprang up that took the two men by surprise. The note was whirled from their grasp, halfway between doctor and police officer. Then it was gone toward the dark wood and they saw it no more. Oates clamped his lips tight shut, opened them again to speak of the incident in the library. He had a quick mental image of the man with the scar.
Then he decided to keep his own counsel. After all, what was the use?
All he said was, “We’d better sort out something sensible for your report,” as he led the way back inside the station.
The doctor lingered, listening to the croaking of the frogs, watching the distant points of green light over the swamp.
He gave a short laugh.
“Does it matter what we put, Captain? No one’s going to believe us, anyway.”
XI
Bellows was first down the dark opening beneath the fallen cross, confident and professional as he guided the cohorts of strong, uniformed State troopers into the large concourse so that the whole place was soon a humming mass of activity.
Despite the Dean’s eagerness to descend, Oates had again glimpsed a strangeness in the academic’s demeanour and had pressed him to remain above. Several of the biggest and strongest officers remained above ground level, for such activity on campus could not pass unnoticed, but the stationing of police vehicles and wooden planking barriers were sufficient to keep the general public at a distance.
Powerful electric torches were being distributed and many of these would be stationed at intervals along the tunnels in order to provide permanent lighting while the searches went on. By their light Oates had more than once glimpsed strange expressions on Holroyd’s face. He was a changed man from the previous day and more than once the Captain of Detectives had asked the cryptologist if he was all right.
“Of course,” he had replied, somewhat irritably, Oates thought. “Why should I not be?”
Now Oates shook his head.
“You don’t look well,” he commented. “That was quite a jolt you had yesterday.”
Holroyd shrugged. He had his face turned away from the other but Oates could still see muscles working in the lean throat. Holroyd did not look too reliable for the work they might have to do and Oates resolved to stick close to him.
Now he called a short conference in the centre of the concourse, briefing the State troopers again as to the plan of action. Each man had been issued with a whistle and a pre-arranged code would bring reinforcements and help as required. When he was certain that all the officers had a clear idea of what they should do, he asked them to remain in the concourse while a small party again reconnoitred the central tunnel. Both Darrow and Bellows had told him it was completely blocked by fallen masonry but he wanted to make sure.
A uniformed police captain and six State troopers accompanied Bellows, Oates and Holroyd into the central tunnel. The place was as light as day as three of the police deployed their torches and the party set out with brisk, confident steps. Unlike Bellows’ original exploration with the Dean, this morning’s excursion was brief; in a very few minutes, it seemed, they came up against the blockage in the tunnel but a sudden exclamation of astonishment from the surveyor brought the party to a halt.
“What’s wrong?” Oates asked sharply, taking in the barrier ahead.
Bellows turned amazed features to him.
“This is impossible.”
“I don’t understand.”
Bellows ignored him, ran forward and passed his fingers over the wall before them.
“A broken fall of jagged stone blocks completely sealed this tunnel. Today there’s a smooth, unbroken masonry wall that looks as though it has been here for years. The thing is impossible...”
He sounded stunned.
Oates could not suppress a slight prickling of the scalp but he seemed quite normal as he questioned the surveyor.
“You’re sure about this? Might you not have been mistaken? You had only low-powered torches, if I recall...”
Bellows shook his head fiercely.
The police captain caught Oates’ eyes. Both men could sense the growing unease among the uniformed personnel; Holroyd’s face was a mass of perspiration.
“Let’s get on with the search, Mr. Oates,” said the uniformed captain, his face a granite mask. “We can sort this out later.”
“Surely,” said Oates with relief and the party then turned abruptly and marched back down the tunnel, those present keeping their thoughts to themselves. But Oates knew that Bellows’ self-confidence was crumbling and Holroyd was close to cracking even before they had started. He might get the latter to stay with the rearguard while they explored the other six tunnels.
The next two hours were ones of unceasing activity. Large contingents of police, split into four parties, explored the remaining passages. Oates led one, the police captain the second and Bellows and Holroyd the third and fourth, though Oates made sure another senior police officer was close to Holroyd throughout. Three of the parties had returned within the two hours; they had tramped through miles of smooth, man-made passages without seeing anything untoward.
Strangely, all three passages had petered out, coming to precisely engineered points; the vee-shapes accurately and smoothly hewn until they met. No one had seen anything like it. While they waited, Oates saw the Dean’s anxious face hovering halfway up the slope beyond the trapdoor and joined him for some fresh air, at the same time giving him the latest news on the day’s activities.
The two men’s conversation was interrupted by the arrival of a big State trooper from the sixth smaller tunnel—that on the extreme left of the concourse—in a condition of barely suppressed excitement. They had found an extremely long and obviously travelled tunnel, wide and slightly curving, whi
ch was now leading downward at the point they had reached, some two miles in. The Captain of State troopers had wisely called a halt there and had sent Strang, the trooper, to report the discovery to Oates and the others.
There were twenty officers in the party, including Holroyd, and the trooper did not anticipate any particular danger at the time he had left to make his way back. Oates had some reservations, however, and conferred aside with Bellows, while the State troopers split themselves into two parties. The bulk would remain behind in the concourse as a reserve and guard the tunnel entrances, until the main party returned.
A few minutes later the relief party set off to rejoin the others in the most westerly of the tunnels and Oates soon saw that the passage was indeed different from the others. Though the entrance was insignificant it soon widened out and the roof was so high it was almost beyond the range of their torches. It curved slightly in places and was soon going downhill, though always in a westerly direction.
Bellows had a compass with him and the needle, though it swung a little, always bore to the west. Now there was a breeze blowing in their faces and with it came the faint musty smell Oates had already noted at Oak Point.
“What do you make of the direction?” Oates asked, after he had estimated they must be more than halfway to the rendezvous point.
The surveyor shrugged.
“Toward Innsmouth and the sea,” he replied shortly. “But I find the engineering talents employed absolutely stupefying. All this is unique in my experience.”
Oates nodded.
“It’s also a little too convenient for my liking.”
Bellows looked at him, his face strained in the light of the torches the two men carried. They were alone, the trooper who had come to fetch them remaining in the concourse with the rear party.
“I don’t quite understand.”
“All the other passages blocked or sealed. As though something wanted us to take this one. The most westerly route. The one that leads to Innsmouth and the sea.”
Bellows shook his head.
“Beyond the reef,” he said in almost dreamy tones. “I’d come to much the same conclusion myself.”
The two men quickened their pace. They were going round a gentle curve, ever more subtly downward when they came to a dark section of tunnel. The way had been lit by torches placed on the passage floor before, but now there was no sign of light in the jet-blackness ahead. Then Oates’ torch caught a flash in the gloom and at the same moment his foot kicked against something. Bellows was before him. The remains of the metal torch was oddly buckled, the metal seemingly melted. The surveyor almost dropped it as he straightened.
“Still warm,” he whispered.
At the same time there came a faint warning whistle from far ahead, a sharp fusillade of gun shots and a strange bleating noise that reverberated against the dark, smooth walls ahead. The two men were already pounding toward the source of the sounds, Oates’ revolver out, throats constricted with fear, minds clouded with thoughts of the unknown.
XII
Oates stopped their headlong rush in a few moments, putting his hand on his companion’s arm.
“We’re not thinking straight.”
He put the whistle to his lips, blew with all his might. Bellows joined him. Then they stood, torches burning steadily in the darkness, listening with straining ears. Ten seconds passed, then twenty; moments long as eternity. Then, the silvery answering notes that spelt out: We are on our way. They seemed to pierce the darkness like rays of shining light. Oates and Bellows ran on, conscious that there were no sounds ahead of them. Their torches showed nothing but the tunnel, leading steadily downward; a salt wind now, blowing on their faces, bearing with it the strange smell of subterranean depths. The passage was becoming smaller as it went downhill.
At last they came to a curve more extreme than the others, the way ahead more precipitate. The dancing torch beams picked out shapeless pieces of metal on the floor of the tunnel. Oates recognised with a tightening of the throat the distorted, half-melted remnants of what had once been police revolvers. There were no signs of a struggle but something that looked like scorch marks on the passage walls ahead. That and vestiges of the grey slime that Oates had seen out at Oak Point. He came to a full stop, held the wrist of the other man.
“But aren’t we going on?” Bellows said. “The others may be hurt or in great danger.”
Oates shook his head.
“That’s what they want us to do,” he said, his voice betraying a slight tremor. “The whole thing has been made too simple. The Captain should have waited. Instead, it’s my bet he went on down that slope. It looks a bad place.”
Bellows directed his torch downward, conscious of a faint humming sound about them.
“For an ambush?”
Oates shrugged.
“For anything. Anything bad, that is. We stay here until the others come up. The Captain’s party may be beyond all help by now, anyway.”
Bellows’ face was grey.
“You can’t mean that. Holroyd too...?”
“I do mean it. There are things around here inimical to man. They come from the Innsmouth area. These tunnels were probably their chief outlets to the outside world. They’ve established a firm foothold in Innsmouth, and now in Arkham, probably with the aid of local people. Two years ago they almost succeeded. Now they’re trying again. And they don’t intend to fail.”
Bellows’ face was glazed with perspiration.
“This all sounds insane...” he began hoarsely.
“You’ll just have to trust me,” Oates told him. “I’ve got some of the pieces. But there are still a lot missing. Maybe we’ll never know the whole truth. And we can’t yet tell friend from foe. Someone in Arkham blew the whistle on me yesterday when I went to Innsmouth. My visit was expected. Measures were taken. I’m lucky to be here.”
Bellows laughed cynically.
“Lucky, did you say?”
He turned as they caught the welcome sound of running feet behind them. At the same time the slithering noise ahead began once more, mingled with the bleating they had heard earlier. The dancing torch beams caught flickering shapes, snake-like heads that hissed and darted fire. An insidious music began in their ears, mingled with obscene whisperings that seemed to penetrate their brains. Oates gritted his teeth, started to fire blindly into the mass of squamous serpent-beings that advanced up the tunnel toward them.
His nerves steadied; this was something he could see. The bullets would probably make little impression but the deafening explosions beneath the vaulted roof blotted out the inroads that were being made into his mind. Something tore ahead of him and he saw one of the things slither to a halt; it seemed to flicker and disappear into the wall. The awful stink was in their nostrils. Then there came the reassuring sound of heavy boots on the tunnel floor and the space was filled with a great mass of State troopers.
The tunnel was wreathed in smoke as they knelt and started to fire steadily into the packed mass of rope-like beings that blocked the passage ahead. They wavered and broke and seemed to trickle away like water. Oates felt his legs buckle beneath him and then there were strong hands under his arms and he was being dragged clear, together with the surveyor. As by some unspoken command the band of men that blocked the tunnel stepped slowly backward, keeping ranks unbroken, torches held steadily, going upward to the sanity of the concourse and the open air far above.
“Explosives are the only answer,” Bellows whispered brokenly.
“Maybe,” said Oates shortly, sheathing his revolver, his nerve restored. “Though the things that were able to drill all this might find them but an ineffective deterrent.”
“Have you any better suggestions? We must block these tunnels somehow.”
His voice broke into a rasping shudder.
“Did you see those creatures’ eyes?”
Oates nodded grimly.
“I’m not likely to forget.”
The strange march continued,
the whole party walking backward, weapons raised.
They did not regain normality until they could hear answering whistles from the concourse. Then the babble of voices surrounded them and amid the tumult Bellows suddenly felt his legs going from under him and he lapsed unconscious to the ground.
XIII
REPORT FROM CAPTAIN OF DETECTIVES OATES TO CHIEF OF BUREAU, STATE POLICE:
In submitting the attached report I would like to make a few general observations which would not normally come within the purview of the Department.
1. In the event of anything happening to me I would like you to contact and rely upon the testimony of Dr. Ewart Lancaster, police surgeon of Arkham, who has seen many strange things in his career, but none stranger, I think, than the happenings at Arkham and Innsmouth these past few months.
2. Please also contact those people mentioned in my report; i.e. Dr. Darrow, Dean of the Faculty at Miskatonic; the cryptologist Jefferson Holroyd; and the surveyor Andrew Bellows, all of whom have experienced a number of the events detailed in the report.
3. Dr. Lancaster’s original autopsy findings on the man Jeb Conley (and which must now supersede those he prepared for public consumption) can be absolutely relied upon and I corroborate them in every detail. Please see paragraph 34 (c) for my own preliminary findings and for my corroboration of Dr. Lancaster’s experiences at Oak Point police station two nights ago. Conley’s death was undoubtedly murder, and the disappearance of the corpse and the bizarre and unexplained manner of death should not obscure that.
4. Thorough investigation should be made among senior personnel of the Arkham Police Department and also among citizens of both Arkham and Innsmouth, for it was obvious that my trip to Innsmouth was leaked in advance and this could have led to my death when the brakes of the police vehicle I was using were tampered with. Local people are obviously working in with these creatures though for what reasons; e.g. profit, coercion, fear etc., my investigations have not yet revealed.
5. As strange and inexplicable as you may find my official report I urge you not to ignore it and ask you to remember our twenty-year friendship and whether you have ever had occasion to doubt the veracity of the material I have previously placed before you.
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