With every regard, I am, sir,
Your obedient servant,
Cornelius Oates
Captain of Detectives, County Force.
XIV
Holroyd was running. The insidious voices were still in his ears and the weirdness and wildness of what he had seen was so recent and so strong that it seemed to have completely burned itself into his consciousness. He appeared to have been running for hours, because it was now dark; his clothing was torn and dishevelled; his face and hands scratched and bleeding; and the perspiration streamed from every pore.
He had left the University area and as though by some atavistic instinct was making for his own house off campus, as the neighbourhood seemed familiar to him. He remembered, as he went up the zigzag concrete path that led to the front door, that his housekeeper was not due there today. He usually dined in college that evening. That would be good. No one must see him in this condition.
He slackened his pace, realising he was near collapse. As he put his key in the front door-lock his head swam and he almost fell. He clung to the bunch of keys, willed himself not to faint. Not that he had any idea as to why he should have fainted. His memory had been erased as though some unknown force had insidiously eroded the patterns from his brain. All he could recollect was that he had been deadly afraid; that he had taken flight; and that he was now home.
He let himself into the deserted house, switched on the entrance light and carefully avoiding his image in a silver-gilt mirror, somehow got upstairs, almost on his hands and knees. He avoided switching on the bedroom light, undressed quickly by the glow of a street lamp spilling in through the window and ran a shower. The sting of the cold water, rapidly effaced by the hot, seemed to revive him and a quarter of an hour later, dressed in clean clothes and with a glass of whiskey in his hand he felt almost restored to normal.
He was aware of hunger then and pausing only to put his mud-stained clothing into the laundry basket for the housekeeper to attend to next day, he padded downstairs, finding some legs of chicken and a blueberry pie in the kitchen icebox. He sat down at the small pine table in the kitchen, consuming the makeshift meal, his mind suspended in a state of neutrality. A blank opaqueness obtruded between himself and reality, as though a veil of mist had descended over his perceptions. It was not unpleasant and he tried to prolong the feeling, almost revelling in the animal comfort of the food and the drink and his clean dothes after the terrors of the past hours.
Presently he remembered the library and his de-coding machine. He got up then and went to his study, searching for some scribbled notes he had made the previous week. He returned with them and a blank scratch-pad to the kitchen, first drawing the blinds furtively as though someone might be crouching on the walk outside. He busied himself with some abstruse calculations, checking and re-checking his figures against his original notes.
A faint scratching noise against the outer walls of the house escaped his attention; or if it did not he paid it no heed, for it was like nothing more than a light wind that agitated vines that clothed the trellis on the façade. He was absorbed now and an hour must have passed while his pen passed busily over the paper. Later he was conscious that he was cold and his attention was then drawn to the whiskey glass, which was empty.
He went back to the living room and crossed to the bar to replenish his drink, oblivious of the strange shadows that were dancing across the windows outside. It was quite still now, only the faint hum of a passing automobile intruding into the deathly silence. He resumed his seat in the kitchen, went back to his notes; after a few minutes more the contents of his glass remained untasted at his elbow, so concentrated was his attention. The deep chime of an old cased clock on the landing at last brought him to realise that it was past nine o’clock.
Then he went round checking doors and windows, dropping the automatic catch on the front door, making sure the kitchen was secure too. It was a long-standing routine when he was sleeping at home and though he knew that Mrs. Karswell would have secured everything before she left, it was a habit so ingrained that he felt compelled to go through the gestures, even though he would have been shocked to find she had been lax in some respect. He paused near the back door, again checking the time from his watch, as though it were of supreme importance.
The telephone rang then and he went out into the hall to answer it. A deep, glutinous voice he did not recognise was on the other end of the line. At first he could not make out the words. The fog seemed to have descended on his brain once more. The voice was vaguely familiar but still he could not place it. The unknown caller appeared to be giving him some sort of instructions. He listened more intently, tried to concentrate on the words, which poured like smoke through his brain and out again without having any apparent effect. The voice ended at last and Holroyd thanked the dead instrument before replacing it in the cradle. He stumbled back to the kitchen, his hands over his ears, more confused than ever. He checked his watch, was shocked to see that a whole half-hour had passed. Then he picked up his glass and took a few tentative sips. The spirit seemed to rouse his sluggish spirit and he turned to his notes, conscious now of a great weariness of soul and body that had settled on him.
Even the scratching of the pen filled him with disgust and he threw it from him with a little gesture of petulance. The ink made a long blob across the whiteness of the paper which reminded him of something. But he could not make it out. He was tired. That was it. Presently he would remember. It was about this time he heard the furtive footsteps. They seemed to come down the front path and pause at the main door.
Holroyd sat as though frozen, his ears alert to the slightest sound. But there was no expected knock or ring at the doorbell.
Instead, the slouching steps were circling the house by way of the little paved path that went all the circumference of the building. The furtive noise was cut off by the angle of the house and Holroyd, still hunched agonisingly at the kitchen table, waited an age until the sound again became audible, this time on the kitchen side. Then there was a pause and a sudden brittle drumming of fingers on the kitchen windowpane. It was a tiny, almost jaunty sound as though the unseen visitor had decided to have his little joke but to the listener in the kitchen it denoted obscene horror. He sat shrivelled in his chair, waiting for a repetition but the footsteps passed on until the kitchen door was quietly tried. Holroyd almost screamed then but somehow he suppressed the sounds.
Another age passed and the footsteps moved away. Still Holroyd sat on in the paralysis of dream. When the front door bell sounded it was like an explosion of the system. Scalding waves of acid washed across the cryptologist’s nerves. He raised himself from the table, sweat beading his forehead. He drained the last of the whiskey in the glass and set off at a shambling run upstairs. From the bathroom window he could overlook the front porch. He cautiously twitched back the gauze curtain.
A dark, reassuring figure was standing in the porch light, looking bewilderedly about him. Relief flooded through Holroyd. He thought he knew who the visitor was now. But why had the man not announced himself at the beginning, instead of all that furtive circling of the building? Holroyd went over to the bathroom mirror, switched on the light and looked at himself properly for the first time. Apart from dark rings beneath the eyes and a certain pallor of complexion he looked quite normal. He paused a moment longer, adjusting his tie as the imperious pealing of the bell went on.
The visitor had evidently seen the bathroom light come on and realised he was at home. Holroyd switched it off, straightened himself up and walked slowly back down the stairs. The bell sounded again as he crossed the hall. He opened the door cautiously on the chain, unable at first to see his visitor’s face as he was standing immediately beneath the lamp, his hat shading his features.
“Come along, Holroyd,” said an irritable voice. “I have some important matters to discuss.”
“Oh, it’s you,” said Holroyd in a relieved tone. “Come in.” The guest looked about him suspiciously
as he crossed the threshold. The cryptologist led the way back into the living room, drawing the heavy velvet drapes before ushering his visitor into a chair.
His mind was more alert now, thoughts beginning to crystallise.
He knew what he had to do as he crossed to the bar to offer his guest a drink.
XV
Dr. Lancaster was on a lonely stretch of highway halfway between Innsmouth and Arkham when he ran out of gasoline. He had been called urgently to a lonely farmhouse but when he arrived the people there, who did not even own a telephone, knew nothing of any medical emergency. Lancaster had sworn in a genteel sort of way, driving back the lonely miles, so preoccupied with his thoughts and his own and Oates’ problem that he had quite forgotten to look at the gauge.
Fortunately, he had left the gorges far behind and in any event he always carried a spare can in the trunk of the vehicle. It would take only a few minutes to put another two gallons in the tank. Strangely enough, he was certain the tank had been more than half full earlier in the day. There had been a strong smell of gasoline, it was true, when he regained the car at the farmhouse and it might be that there was some leak in the tank. He would have his own garage in Arkham look at it tomorrow.
He left the headlights of the vehicle on and went around in back to unlock the trunk. He was preoccupied with the present problem and the other thoughts that oppressed him but even so he thought he saw a faint shadow at the corner of his eye, just beyond the yellow cones cast by the headlamps. He was on an S-bend where the heavy trees and foliage came down almost to the road’s edge. It was a sombre place, even in daylight, yet he felt no particular sense of danger. With the expertise of long practice he quickly unscrewed the cap of the can, got the funnel from the floor of the trunk and carefully started to re-fill the tank.
He had got about halfway through this operation when he heard the faint rustling in the bushes. He stopped the pouring, screwed back the cap on the gasoline tank and put down the half-full can, all his senses alert. His mind was now directed toward the telephone call; the lateness of the hour; the loneliness of the terrain; and the fact that the people at the farm had no phone.
It all began to add up. Humming quietly to himself, though in fact his nerves were on edge, Lancaster stepped round the rear of the car, carrying the open can in his left hand while with his right he leaned into the driving seat and re-started the engine.
It made a satisfying sound in the silence of the night and simultaneously he noticed something like a flickering, snake-like undulation that came along the roadside verge. And again the stealthy crackling in the bushes. All fear dropped away from Lancaster; he was a man with very steady nerves, as he needed to be in his profession, and he knew exactly what he was going to do. He eased his cigarette lighter from his vest pocket and waited expectantly, hearing only the faint soughing of the night wind over the steady drone of the motor.
“Is there anyone there?”
Even to himself his voice sounded a little unsteady but his pulse beat evenly enough. He moved around to the rear of the car again, facing the roadside verge, strongly illuminated by the beams of the headlights. He repeated the question and again came the crackle. This time the doctor saw a bush to his right move gently, as though someone were standing there, in the shadow where the headlights’ illumination began to die away.
Then the branches parted and alien eyes, glaucous and triangular, stared out at the tense form of the doctor. There was a brittle rattling that sent fingers of fear brushing up his spine for the first time. Incredulously, he glimpsed the snake-head surmounting a semitransparent, slug-like body; the rest of it mercifully hidden by the thick undergrowth which encroached on to the road at that point. The thing lunged at him, the long body flowing like a reptile’s from out the bushes, while the rest of it was hidden.
The horrified doctor noted the vestiges of a humanoid face beneath the layers of grey-green reptilian skin and a shrill mewling cry broke from the thing as it slithered toward him with incredible speed. Lancaster screamed then but he did not lose his nerve. With a dexterity born of sheer terror he directed a stream of gasoline over the advancing monstrosity, which halted in its headlong progress. The doctor ran back, having the presence of mind to lay a trail of gasoline leading away from the car. The thing hesitated, the mewling replaced by the thin, brittle rattling he had heard before.
Then Lancaster ripped the prescription form from off the pad in his pocket, stroked the lighter with trembling fingers and lit the paper. He threw it toward the obscenity that hesitated fatally at the roadside. There was a roar as the gasoline caught and then the doctor hurled the can full at the creature while he ran to the front of the automobile with a speed that astonished him. He let off the brake and pushed the car clear of the advancing line of fire that moved with tremendous momentum.
The thing emitted a high-pitched shriek as fire licked at it, caught the bushes beyond. There was a soft explosion, presumably when the gasoline can went up, and yellow fire blossomed. Then a writhing, hiding, dying creature that yet moved and functioned with a sentient consciousness went flaming away into the darkness of the undergrowth as Lancaster, mentally expunging these horrors from his mind, let in the clutch and the car hurtled on into the merciful darkness leading back to the sanity of Arkham.
Presently even the orange glow in the rear mirror faded to blackness and Lancaster was aware that he was alive and free, albeit drenched with perspiration and shaking from his ordeal. He could hardly control the car or handle the gear-changes and when he reached the outskirts of Arkham, he parked briefly, reaching for the flask of brandy in his medical bag.
When he was sufficiently master of himself he drove home, finding the time was still only 10:00 p.m. Then he hurled himself at the telephone.
XVI
Oates was having a ham sandwich in the police canteen when the call came. At first he could not make out who was on the line but when the doctor was a little more coherent the big detective’s own excitement rapidly mounted to a state approaching that of the older man.
“What things?” he said, asking Lancaster to repeat himself for the third time.
“These obscenities,” the doctor said in a trembling voice. “They have distinct human attributes. I believe they are able to change their form at will. Innsmouth, Oates... The degenerate species of which we have spoken from time to time. I believe with all my soul that wherever they come from, they are able to physically ingest human beings.”
Oates was stunned but he went on automatically making notes.
“The old reports said things came from out the sea; from around the reef that lies off Innsmouth,” he observed slowly. “It’s all too fantastic for words.”
“Fantastic, yes,” the doctor went on, “but a reality we have to deal with. There’s a deadly danger there. But we have the answer. Gasoline!”
“Gasoline?” said Oates uncomprehendingly.
“Gasoline, man! Gasoline!” the doctor repeated. “That’s the one area they’re vulnerable. They can destroy people, yes. And they seem capable of generating great heat themselves, so powerful it can buckle metal, as we have seen. But they can’t abide fire themselves. That may be our salvation. I’ve been studying the reports for years. That’s why they wanted me out of the way. That’s why they tampered with your brakes. We were both getting too near the truth.”
“We shall both be candidates for the county asylum if this becomes public,” Oates growled.
Lancaster drummed with trembling fingers on the edge of the telephone mouthpiece.
“It’s our only salvation, man! You know I’m speaking the truth. You’ve seen those passages. And you know the left-hand one leads toward Innsmouth and the sea. Now they’re ready to take over Arkham. It all ties in. The destruction of Holroyd’s machine...”
He went on in a semi-incoherent fashion but Oates was already won over. Not that he needed winning over. He had come to much the same conclusions himself, long before tonight’s conversation.
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“Those things are ready to move,” Lancaster went on. “We’ve no time to lose. Will you make the arrangements?”
“It will take a day or two,” Oates said dubiously. “We’ve got to do it right. And my superiors...”
“Leave them out of it,” Lancaster said crisply.
He sounded much calmer now.
“It may be too late if we go through official channels. You already have those squads of State troopers. That should be enough.”
“What do you propose?”
“We’d better meet tonight,” the doctor said. “I’ll come over to Police HQ. I feel too vulnerable here after what happened. We have much to talk about. We’ll need thousands of gallons of gasoline. As well as explosives.”
Oates swore.
“You know what you’re asking?”
Lancaster clicked his teeth impatiently. He seemed to have completely recovered his nerve.
“When you’ve heard my full story you’ll want to take action tonight!”
“All right,” Oates said finally. “I’ll see you in an hour. I’ll have the coffee pot on in case you need sobering up.”
The doctor gave a hollow laugh.
“I’ve taken one short slug of brandy all evening, Captain. I’m sober all right. I wish I were not.”
Oates modified his manner. His voice was gentle when he replied.
“All right, doc. I believe you. Come on in and we’ll get this thing organised.”
XVII
“It may not have been entirely my fault, gentlemen. The Captain there knows that I was well enough when he first got to know me. But events in the Library of Miskatonic and what I eventually deduced from the de-codes began to have their effect upon me. I knew that you had noted this yourself, Captain, when we spoke in the concourse when we and the State Police began to explore the passages. I knew then what the end would be but I dared not say anything.
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