The Complete Novels

by Don Wilcox

  “If it were a story, that castle would be some crack-brained scientists’ experimental power station—”

  Hank’s eyes lighted. “Ah—a scientist and his daughter—”

  “But more probably it’s a Nazi outpost, set to destroy incoming bombers.”

  “Wait till I get my notebook,” said Hank. “Now—go on.”

  “Well, that’s my best guess,” said Ross. “It’s some sort of war weapon.” Here one of the fishermen broke his silence. “The war’s got nothing to do with it. That castle has sent out lightning and earthquakes for nine years.”

  As they rowed closer, the perpendicular walls of the promontory rose tall and majestic before them. Most of the castle, high overhead, became obscured from view. Only the outer ends of the blue-stone wings could be seen, projecting to the cliff’s edge. At one point a low wide porch extended out over empty space.

  Ross’ uplifted eyes swept the sheer five hundred foot drop to the crags jutting up out of the placid waters at the promontory base.

  Then he saw the solitary figure of a ragged man, lying on one of the crags with his hands locked under his shaggy head.

  “Row over to that fellow,” Ross instructed.

  The fishermen protested. The crags were treacherous, they complained. Besides, that man was only a crazy, crippled beggar. But Ross insisted, and the dory threaded through the jutting rocks to the beggar’s perch.

  “Hi, there,” Ross called to him. “What’s your name?”

  The ragged fellow turned his shaggy head and eyes. He spit a piece of seaweed out of his mouth and smeared his brown bony wrist across his whiskers. His leathery skin was as brown as the rock he was lying on.

  “Name’s Jimpson,” he answered in a manner surprisingly pert. “What’s yours?”

  “Bradford. Do you live here?”

  “Sure. I’ve got a little cave up in the cliff. It ain’t bad.”

  “What do you do?”

  “Gather statistics. What do you do?”

  “Pilot airplanes. I ran into some hard luck last night and lost a plane. These Flinfiord storms come up in a hurry.”

  “You said it,” said Jimpson. He crawled down closer to the water’s edge. His stiff back and twisted legs weren’t much help, but he put his strong arms to good use. “What else do you do?” Ross smiled. “I used to help run a big hotel for transients.”

  “That must be where I’ve seen you before,” the fellow said casually. “I used to get around. Don’t get around much any more.”

  “The fellow’s batty,” Hank whispered.

  “I gotta keep on the job, gathering statistics,” the fellow went on.

  “What sort of statistics, Jimpson?”

  Ross asked.

  Jimpson pointed upward. “See that porch? That’s five hundred and fifty feet up. I don’t figure more’n one man in a thousand that gets shoved off from up there could live through it the way I did. You see it’s got to be high tide

  “You fell from up there?” Ross narrowed an eye critically.

  The fellow pointed at his legs. “That’s how I got them.”

  Ross stepped across to the rock, knelt down beside the man, and examined the crooked bones of his legs. “Too bad you couldn’t have had them set, Jimpson. Not much good to you, are they?”

  “You’d be surprised. They’re as handy as mud chains. But as I was sayin’—statistics. The laws of improbability and such. I don’t figure I’ll live to see another man come through the way I did. You see, there’s got to be a rough sea, and you’ve got to hit an awful big wave and hit just right, like landin’ from a ski jump. I had uncanny good luck.” Jimpson spit out another chunk of seaweed and squinted upward. “I always keep watch about this time of mornin’.”

  “Do you ever see anyone fall?” Ross asked.

  “Seen a pretty goodly percent. Now and then I miss, but at least I see the body wash past after the fall. That keeps my statistics straight.”

  Ross looked across to Hank, who winked and motioned for him to come on. The fishermen were growing impatient. Ross turned back to the crippled beggar. “If what you say is true—”

  “It is true, Bradford. I never lied to you.”

  Ross was struck by the fellow’s oddly familiar manner.

  “What in thunder goes on up in that castle?” Ross asked.

  “That,” said Jimpson, brushing his ragged whiskers and casting a scornful eye toward the fishermen, “is something I never discuss in the hearing of the public. Come back alone sometime, Bradford.”

  “I may do that, Jimpson. At least I’m going to hike up to that castle and see what it’s all about. So long, and thanks.”

  Ross climbed down into the dory. He lifted a package of cigarettes and matches from Hank’s pocket and tossed them back. Jimpson caught them and grinned.

  The fishermen shoved off. Ross gave the fellow a final wave, and saw him shake his shaggy head as he called, “I wouldn’t go up, if I was you. According to my statistics, it ain’t healthy.”

  CHAPTER III

  An Amazing Reception

  “The fellow’s loony,” Hank mumbled, as they pushed toward the village.

  “Maybe,” said Ross dubiously. “But there’s something remarkable about him, living out there like a hermit, keeping up lively conversation with himself. There’s a character for your notebook.”

  “I’d confine him to a comic section,” said Hank. “How do you know he talks to himself?”

  “By the way he talks. He keeps in practice. He probably reads the pedigree of every tight-lipped fisherman that rows past.”

  “Did you go for his story about his falling?”

  “Yes,” said Ross.

  “How about his notion that he’d seen you before?”

  “Could be. Thousands of homeless men were in and out of the Transient Hotel. All kinds of men, from beggars to millionaires incog. This Jimpson is obviously an American, probably a globe-trotting hobo before he got crippled up.”

  They landed at the village, paid off the fishermen, went directly to the office of the British agent. He was a curt young officer, almost as uncommunicative as the fishermen. He received Ross’s story of the lost bomber without surprise. I’ll cable your report,” he said. “But my advice is, forget your proposed investigation.”

  “I can’t do that,” said Ross pointedly.

  “Flinfiord folks know better than to dig up trouble over something they can’t understand,” said the agent. “Those storms are a common occurrence.”

  “I’d think you’d investigate,” Ross snapped. “It’s most likely a Nazi instrument of death.”

  “It began long before the war. Don’t ask me what it is. For all I know, it’s some hidden hell that breaks loose like a geyser. That castle is a kingdom unto itself as far as I’m concerned.”

  Ross waited in the office until the operator had transmitted his cablegram. That done, the young pilot was officially free. He dashed off a few letters to catch the first mail boat for England. Then he and Hank found a low-roofed tavern where fish foods were plentiful.

  While they were eating, Hank spread a small piece of crumpled paper on the table. It was a cablegram blank, with a message partially written, spoiled and marked out.

  “Picked it up in the wastebasket over at the agent’s,” said Hank. “Ducky feminine handwriting, isn’t it?”

  The message, dated the previous night, was addressed to a news association in the U.S.A. It read:

  Still following that H K story over devious route. Left Japan four weeks ago. Trail led to Flinfiord, small island between England and Iceland. I think he is nuts. He does not know where he is going or why. If he continues globe-trotting count on me to quit and jump the first boat for home—

  At that point the writer had suddenly jerked the pen. Perhaps she had been startled by a crash of thunder or an earthquake jolt. At any rate she had discarded the message, not neglecting to scratch out a few of the key words.

  “What about it?” Ross a
sked, throwing a question-mark expression at his turtle-like companion.

  “They don’t send crack reporters galloping around the world for nothing. If this female is still on the island, I’d better sharpen my pencil for a story.” Ross rose. “How about a hike up to the castle with me?”

  “Sorry,” said Hank. “I’m out to fill my notebook, and I’ve got a hunch this gal has a nose for news. If she grabs a boat, I’m gonna, be on board.”

  Ross smiled. “You know you can’t be sure a girl’s good-looking just because she’s a fancy handwriter.”

  Hank frowned at the crumpled message. “Dammit, Ross, she’s got to be good-looking. Anyway, I’m gonna stick around the village. If you aren’t back by night, I’ll know that crippled beggar was telling the truth. I’ll send the fishermen out to pick up your body. Have a good time, fellow.”

  They shook hands and parted company.

  Ross Bradford jogged along the upward trail at a leisurely pace. Whenever he came upon a native, he stopped for all the conversation he could get.

  “You won’t get in up there,” said an old lady, working in her garden. That was all she would say. Ross moved on.

  “They’ve got the place guarded,” said a boy who was gathering wood. “Nobody ever goes up there except to deliver goods or take the mail—nobody, that is, except foreigners. And they usually get turned away.”

  “What foreigners?”

  The boy said he didn’t know—any foreigners, he guessed. Strangers were always coming to the island, he said. Sometimes they were black men, sometimes yellow men from the Orient, sometimes white people from Europe or one of the Americas. But regardless of their color they weren’t wanted at the castle.

  “What happens when they fail to get in?” Ross asked.

  The boy shrugged. “Most of them sail back home, I guess. A few of them build houses and settle down over on the east side of the island. They’re an awful mess, always fighting and stealing, and talking all kinds of foreign languages. They stole a boat from my dad one time.”

  Ross shook his head, thanked the boy, and hiked on. It was a confusing picture—that innocent-looking, blue-stone castle expanding magnificently before him.

  To the eye it was the crowning beauty spot of the mountainous island.

  But to the villagers it was a source of bad weather and earthquakes that had to be tolerated, and a magnet for troublesome foreigners from all over the world.

  To the British agent it was a bit of runaway hell, not to be dealt with on the same terms as Nazi war weapons.

  To Hank it had been the source of a soft, plaintive radio voice.

  To the crippled beggar named Jimpson it was a jump-off to death.

  To Ross himself it was something mystical, unconquered, unknown; something terrifically challenging. It was the source of a weird vision of two evil eyes, glaring—all the way down through that swift dive—the vision that Ross had expected to be the last earthly sight his eyes would see.

  The trail dipped downward into the bed of a dashing mountain stream. Here the action of earthquakes was conspicuous. The bridge of former years had been reduced to a ford of broken masonry. Ross stopped, drank, removed his puttees, shoes and socks, and bathed his feet in the cool water.

  While he rested, turning matters over in his mind, he looked up to see a small caravan of pack animals coming down to the river from the opposite direction. The driver, after watering his beasts, came over to Ross, greeted him genially.

  Once more Ross was to get a preview of the castle mysteries. At first he did not realize that this man’s story was to give him a radically different slant.

  “It’s only another half mile up the mountainside,” said the driver, on learning of Ross’ mission. “But you won’t be able to get in.”

  “Isn’t there any other way except past the guards?” Ross asked.

  “There’s no other approach.”

  The driver got down on his knees and sketched a map of the island in the dust.

  “You see, Flinfiord is shaped like an English lady’s high-heeled shoe. The village lies to the north on the pointed toe. There’s a second village—a settlement of foreign rapscallions—over here on the east, about where the shoe laces begin. Then here’s all your mountains rising over the uppers. And down here at the southwest corner is the high heel. That’s the promontory with the castle. Steep on three sides.”

  Ross nodded. “And this river?”

  “It comes down from the mountains, cuts a canyon past the promontory, and winds on down to the sea right at the instep of the shoe—a half mile or so below this old bridge.”

  “You know your island pretty well,” Ross commented.

  “Ought to. I’ve peddled groceries around it all my life.”

  “Then you know all about these electric storms and quakes?”

  The driver drew himself up defensively. “That’s something we island folks don’t talk much about. But I can set you right on one thing.”

  He drew a pipe out of his pocket, tapped it against a rock, gestured decisively by pointing toward the bit of castle turret that could be seen against the afternoon sky.

  “Old Bill Graygortch, the man who owns that estate, never died” he said. “Anyone that tries to tell you different is off his facts.”

  “Nobody has told me anything about old Bill Graygortch,” said Ross.

  “He’s still up there, and he’s still rich enough to buy more supplies than all the rest of the island. I ought to know. Of course, I don’t often see him any more, but I get to talk with his servants. The gongs still ring whenever he climbs the stairs to his top turret. They ring pretty far apart, now, because he’s getting so feeble. But that half-witted fellow down in the village who claims he helped dig old Bill Graygortch’s grave and saw him dead and buried is a damned liar.”

  The driver’s speech rose to a vengeful outburst and stopped quite suddenly, He swung his whips at the dusty backs of his pack animals. The caravan went on its way.

  Ross crossed the stream, put on socks, shoes and puttees, and began the last half mile of his ascent.

  Within a few minutes the massive blue-stone architecture was hovering over him from the promontory’s crest. The trail narrowed through a short canyon of hewn walls. The narrow pass led to an open gateway of bolted logs.

  On the crossbeam letters had been cut to spell the single word, Graygortch.

  Ross passed through the gateway, then stopped. A clearing half as large as a football gridiron lay between him and the castle entrance. The clearing was very much occupied. Some sort of game was in progress, with ten or twelve uniformed men participating.

  “English sailors!” Ross thought, for such were the uniforms the players wore. “No—these must be the guards.” The court was walled in with high bolted log walls. It was, in fact, the promenade of these guardsmen. The game, having no spectators, was obviously only a pastime.

  “Guardsmen’s hockey,” Ross grinned to himself, for by this time he perceived that there were two teams in combat, each trying to club the rubber dummy to a goal.

  The rubber dummy bounced about with rubber-ball agility. In form it resembled a man, except for the absence of a head and part of an arm, which had evidently been battered off in the course of the dummy’s service.

  “Nice grim game,” Ross thought. “Those boys keep in practice.”

  He squinted his eyes against the dust of battle, noting the hearty violence with which the men swung their heavy wooden clubs. He was somehow reminded, at that moment, that he had come here without any weapons. His own revolver had gone down with the bomber. He carried a small packet of miniature tools, a fountain-pen flashlight, a pocket knife—nothing that gave him any satisfaction to reflect upon.

  He had taken the trouble, at the fishermen’s tavern, to inquire about purchasing firearms, and had been assured that no such articles could be had except by mail order. So he had come on unarmed.

  Now the dummy bounced toward his side of the court and the p
layers came toward him on the run. Someone shouted, “Hey!” and the game came to a dead stop. All twelve of the panting, sweating guards were looking at Ross Bradford. A few of them began to smile, and there was low mumbling.

  One of them picked up the rubber dummy and hurled it to the nearest corner of the court where it lay, out of way. Then the guards moved toward Ross.

  They advanced in a front less regular than military formation—something a shade better than a mob front. Ross stood well inside the gateway and waited. They came within four yards and stopped.

  “Check it,” one of them said, flinging the palm of his hand back at the others as he stepped forward. “I’ve got this.” For the space of not more than five seconds his eyes made a dozen quick sweeps of Ross from head to foot. His smile was full of projecting upper teeth.

  “You’ve come in good time,” he said. “But Graygortch was beginning to worry. Follow me. I’ll introduce you to the girl at once.”

  The other guards moved aside. Ross and his escort marched across the promenade and into the main entrance of the castle.

  CHAPTER IV

  Prospective Bridegroom

  Ross Bradford’s heart jumped up into his throat and hung there. Each time the guard led him up another stairs to a higher level a faint musical bling! would sound from some adjacent wail, like a clock striking half-past.

  With every bling Ross’ heart took another jump. Obviously any castle so well equipped with electric eyes that it registered your every ascent or descent or turn of a corner, could be equally well supplied with trapdoors and iron bars. Ross began to wish for a nice safe cell that would give time to catch his directions. This place was a maze. He was certainly being taken prisoner.

  “Back this way,” the guard hissed, shoving him into an alcove. Ross thought, here it comes.

  But no bars fell. Instead, heavy footsteps pounded along the stone floor and in a moment Ross got a glimpse of the man as he walked past. The man was huge, he was as well dressed as an English lord, he carried one shoulder a trifle higher than the other, he had a thick brutal face. Somehow on first glimpse he made Ross think of a movie gangster on dress parade.