The Complete Novels

by Don Wilcox

“Because our new chief told us to give you a military exit all the way to the slope. He figured you needed it. Otherwise you might not have gone beyond the gate, and you might have sneaked back—”

  “I might have, at that,” said Rouse, “and I’d have licked the tar out of him, in spite of an arm in a sling.”

  “I’m sure that’s what he was afraid of,” said Schubert sarcastically. “He knows you’d never resort to any knife-in-the-back methods. Oh, no, not you . . . Well, here we are. You’re on your own. The next time we hear from you, maybe you’ll be one of Graygortch’s chosen men—the thirteenth. And don’t forget the chief’s advice—better take that arm to a doctor for an X-ray. An X-ray for an ex-captain!”

  Rouse trudged down the long crooked trail toward the East Village muttering to himself.

  “The chief,” he growled at the passing stumps and stones. “They’re gonna call this young upstart the chief! All right, they can call him that—while he lasts. But I know a way to make an ex-chief out of him—and It’ll either blow up my chances for that thirteenth niche, or clinch the deal, and I don’t give a damn which.”

  * * *

  Back at the castle Ross Bradford stood at a window gazing through field glasses. The afternoon shadows were lengthening across the mountainous island, but Ross could still follow the progress of the big-shouldered ex-captain.

  “Is he still going the right direction?” asked a passing guard. It was Pudgy, the sailor that Ross had saved from the death-fall at the disciplinary ceremony.

  “He’s moving down the slope toward the East Village,” said Ross. “Take a look.”

  Pudgy lifted the field glasses. “It looks to me like someone’s followin’ along back of him. ’Bout a quarter of a mile back.”

  “Good,” said Ross. “That’s Schubert. I ordered him to follow. Guess we can check Jag Rouse off the trouble list for the present.”

  Pudgy responded by batting his eyes curiously. He was probably itching to know—he and all the other sailors of the castle’s guard—what the new chief’s trouble-list might contain.

  “Pudgy, I want you to run down to the kitchen department,” said Ross, “and tell Fantella to make me a special four-three-0 cake.”

  “A jour-tkree-O cake?”

  “Right. I’ll drop in and pick it up this evening.”

  The stubby sailor memorized the figures on his fingers as he hurried down the steps. He paused on a landing to scratch his puzzled head, then hurried on.

  Ross took another look at the evening shadows stretching over the castle grounds and did some counting of his own.

  Of the three things Graygortch had given him to do, one had already been checked off. He had established himself as the chief of the sailors. They had accepted him with unquestionable respect. He had turned the routine of drill over to a competent lieutenant and had stiffened the hours of duty. But the game of guardsman’s hockey, which had previously sent most of the would-be intruders down the mountainside with battered heads, he had vetoed. In place of that treatment, he had ordered that any and all intruders be held at the gate until the nature of their business had been reported to him, so that he could pass upon each and every comer personally.

  His second and third duties, as Graygortch had outlined them, were: To assist the master in every storm ritual. To marry the master’s niece by sundown today.

  With a final glance at the sunset shadows he turned from the window.

  Reaching his newly assigned room he spent a few minutes washing the grime from his hands and face, combing his hair, salving his sore wrists.

  He keenly wished for a bath and a change of clothes. This pilot’s outfit he had been wearing for several days was hardly appropriate wedding garb.

  As he strode down the corridor toward Vivian’s playroom he passed the entrance to the culinary department. He caught the furtive eyes of the maids watching him expectantly. They had heard, all right, and were no doubt on fire with gossip.

  “Meester Bradford,” Fantella shouted, bustling out into the corridor with her hands full of cookbooks. “Vat in de vorld did you mean by a vor-tree-0 cake? Dere ain’t a cookbook in de house—”

  “Quiet, Fantella,” Ross snapped. “I’ll see you later.”

  “Later, huh? After all der time I’ve vasted on you, you be lucky if your dinners ain’t later vor a veek.”

  “Fantella, if you don’t have a wedding dinner ready for Vivian and me right on the dot, I’ll be tempted to wring your funny neck.”

  “Vedding dinner! Vedding dinner!” Fantella gasped and swallowed and looked as guilty as a child about to be spanked. “Meester Bradford—”

  “Well, what is it?”

  “Hafn’t you read my note?” Her voice lowered to an excited whisper. “Vivian iss gone.”

  “Gone? Gone where?” He unfolded the note. Its simple message read: “Vivian has got away now.”

  “Just—gone.” The cook rolled her eyes innocently. “You remember vat you told her to do?”

  Bradford raised his eyebrows with sudden insight. Yes, of course he remembered. He had told Vivian Graygortch she ought to run away from home. This castle had become a danger spot for anyone. It was no place for an innocent girl.

  “But, Fantella,” said Bradford with an exaggerated sternness that made her roll her eyes more than ever, “that was before Graygortch took me in. Now I’m chief of the guards. And I’m under orders from the master to marry Vivian tonight. So you see—everything has changed.”

  “Haf you changed, Meester Bradford?” she asked, eyeing him steadily.

  It was a sharp question, and Bradford saw that he wasn’t fooling this good-hearted old German cook one bit. She had seen right through his mask. She. knew that he was faking his allegiance to old Bill Graygortch.

  How much more did she know? Did she know he was on the verge of faking a marriage with Vivian just to carry on his own game?

  Did she know where Vivian was?

  “Well, leave me out of this,” said Bradford. “This is a serious jam. If Vivian is gone, and you’re the only one who knows where she went—”

  “Who says I know vere she vent?”

  “S-s-sh. Don’t get so excited,” Ross advised. “You and I had better come to an understanding.”

  The cook scowled defensively. “How could ve haf a understanding ven you order der vor-tree-0 cake vot don’t exist?”

  “Listen, Fantella, I’ll have to report Vivian’s disappearance to Graygortch at once. If she’s hiding here in the castle—”

  “She ain’t. She’s gone. Maybe vun vay, maybe der oder vay. I vouldn’t know.”

  “All right. I’ll send some guards out to look for her. As chief, it’s the least I can do.”

  “Vat’s der most you could do?”

  “Go find her myself.”

  “Vare vould you go?”

  Bradford searched her secretive face. “I’d go straight to the fisherman’s village,” he said. “That’s where she’d be most likely to go—if she meant to get passage off the island.”

  It was uncertain business, trying to read Fantella’s expression, but Ross Bradford thought he had it. There was a faint breath of relief that was almost a safe bet. It seemed to say, Yes, go to the fisherman’s village; go to the East Village too if you want to, but you won’t find her.

  Ross Bradford smiled and made one more gesture toward their common ground of understanding.

  “Thank you, Fantella,” he said, patting her on the shoulder. “I’ll postpone my wedding. I’ll send guards out to find Vivian, but they won’t find her, I’m sure. And if she happens to be hiding within a stone’s throw of us right this minute—”

  “Ve von’t know nothing about it,” said Fantella staunchly.

  “Exactly,” said Ross Bradford.

  With that he strode off.

  He summoned a bugler who called an emergency assembly of the sailors and maids. They came on the run from all directions and fell in before him at the South Pole Plaza, beneath t
he great storm tower.

  He paced before them, delivered the momentous news in a brief thunderbolt announcement.

  “Vivian Graygortch is gone. I’ve made a swift investigation. I’m convinced that she has run away to avoid marriage. A thorough search will commence at once. The swiftest party will go to the fisherman’s village to see that she has no chance to catch a passage off the island.

  Meanwhile, I will confer with our master, the honorable Graygortch.”

  He assigned several groups to search different parts of the ground and all the trails leading away from it, dispatched a party to each village, and ordered the maids of superior rank to conduct a complete search of the castle itself.

  When he had finished his orders, he had covered the territory so completely that a low rumbling voice of praise sounded from one side of the plaza—the voice of Graygortch.

  “You have done well,” came the old man’s words, and everyone turned to see him standing like a gray old statue. “If my niece ran away, she was frightened. But with Bradford to lead you, you are sure to find her.”

  CHAPTER XVIII

  Bradford circled around the wide porches in the darkening twilight. From inside the castle the incessant little bells were ringing, telling him that search parties were crossing hallways or turning corners, or passing up or down stairs. The effect of all these electric-eye-operated sound effects was never more weird than on this evening.

  What had happened to Vivian Graygortch?

  Every ringing bell seemed to ask that question. And so did every flashing electric lantern out on the castle grounds. The parties of sailors were spreading in an ever widening circle trying to catch some telltale clue under the beams of their lights.

  Bradford smiled grimly. It was a strange contrast to have everything going his own way for once.

  Yes, he was the boss of the hour. Not forgetting, of course, that the mystic Old Bill Graygortch was the real boss, with a magic power up his sleeve that could sink ships and disintegrate airplanes.

  How?

  Bradford wondered if he would ever know.

  Somehow he felt closer to the answer tonight than ever before. This day had brought him some revealing words straight from the lips of the mad old mystic himself. And now the decks were being cleared for a more intimate glimpse. The very fates seemed to have conspired to bring him closer to the core of the mystery.

  But at what a cost!

  This morning Hank had gone down.

  This afternoon Schubert, the one sailor out of all this gang of criminals that he was most inclined to trust, had departed on the most perilous mission—that of shadowing Jag Rouse. Schubert would be lucky if he got back alive.

  And now Vivian was gone . . . The courageous little spitfire must have had a lot of confidence in Ross to take his advice and cut loose. But perhaps, as Fantella had come so near admitting, she wasn’t more than a stone’s throw—

  “Pudgy!” Bradford called.

  An answer came across the parade grounds from the group of sailors on guard duty. In a moment Pudgy came up the porch steps and saluted.

  “Take over for me, Pudgy,” said Bradford. “If anyone finds a trace of her, make a record of it. I’m guessing nothing will turn up before the party comes back from the fishing village.”

  The sailor saluted and took up his station on the porch. Bradford took a circuitous route through the halls, made his way to the kitchen.

  He found four maids finishing up the evening’s work. Back in the pantry Fantella was checking over the supplies.

  “Made that cake yet, Fantella?” Ross called.

  “Cake in der pig’s eyes,” she snorted. “I ought to dumbust you ofer der head.”

  She dismissed the four maids, then turned on Ross. “Veil, vat iss?”

  “Four-three-O,” said Ross pointing to the hands of her kitchen clock, “means four-thirty—tomorrow morning.”

  “Veil?”

  “You know who comes for breakfast at that hour,” he said, nodding at her.

  “Ugh?” she blinked.

  “See here,” said Bradford. “This cripple’d fellow, Jimpson, who lives in a cave down the side of the cliff, is my friend as well as yours. I know that you put out food for him, and I know he climbs up the cliffside by a secret trail.”

  “You know vun lot,” she grunted. “Jimpson has done me favors before. I need his help some more.”

  “Vat do I do?”

  “Deliver a message for me along with his four-thirty breakfast. It’s very urgent. It’s about my pal—the one they sent down through the trapdoor this morning. If his body hasn’t washed away, Jimpson might recover it. The sea has been calm all day—”

  “Der sea iss calm, you tink?” Fantella made a sarcastic mouth.

  “I don’t suppose there’ll be a chance by morning,” said Ross. “If there was any way to get word to him yet tonight, I’ll risk my neck to do it.”

  “Vould you risk your neck down Jimpson’s secret cliff trail in der dark?” Ross considered. “That hidden trail’s on the south and west side of the cliff, so I could use a flashlight without being seen by the search parties.”

  “Der maids could see you if dey looked down vrom der vest vindows.”

  “That’s true, but it isn’t likely. Anyway, I’ll take a chance.”

  “Und I’ll chase der maids off der oder vay.”

  “Good girl, Fantella. Here we go.”

  Ross strung a cord through a fresh flashlight and hung it from his neck so that his hands would be free. Fantella held the door open, and the spray of light showed the first footsteps down the ragged cliffside. Ross felt his way down into the blackness. A brisk sea breeze whipped through his hair.

  “Don’t you go vlying off into space.” The warning note in Fantella’s voice revealed a sentimental nature that she usually kept hidden under a hard-boiled crust.

  “I’ll be careful,” said Ross. “If I can’t make it I’ll be back soon.”

  His sore hands gripped like claws as the rocky surfaces steepened.

  “I vouldn’t go too far,” came Fantella’s final warning. “You shouldn’t haf to.”

  “Now what did she mean by that?” Ross muttered to himself.

  Presently his foot struck a rope and he made his way down to where he could get a firm grip on it. He remembered having seen the crippled Jimpson see-saw along with the aid of ropes, like a phantom climbing up through the early morning fog. If a crippled person could fight his way along this trail, Ross should be able to.

  But Jimpson knew the trail. Ross didn’t. And trying to learn it in utter darkness was perilous business. Where the devil were those footholds that Jimpson’s twisted “mud-chain” legs had used? Ross’ toes dug at the wall for a footing, and slipped off into space.

  Ross caught his breath. For a moment he was hanging over black emptiness, clinging to the rope for dear life. The rope began to give. Ross thrust his head forward and clamped his teeth down on a tuft of grass rooted in the perpendicular wall. The rope ceased to slip. He clung desperately. He couldn’t remember that Jimpson had ever depended entirely upon the ropes, and he was no doubt fifty pounds heavier than Jimpson.

  Cautiously he swayed his torso until the flashlight began to swing like a pendulum. His teeth released their tenuous hold, his head bowed enough to take advantage of the light.

  Again the rope was slipping—slipping. He was going down with the sag. If that rope tore free, he’d get the very death-plunge he had escaped twelve hours earlier. Suddenly one end broke loose. He was dropping—

  But there was another rope beneath him—and a bit of ledge beneath it. His clutching hands caught hold, his feet caught his weight before the new rope was put to a test. Again he was on a solid station.

  He hugged the wall until he got his breath. He was only four or five feet below the end of the dangling rope. He had succeeded in taking a shortcut to this lower level. But shortcuts were invitations to death. Moreover, leaving a half-ruined trail behind him wo
uld defeat his own purpose.

  Should he try to go on? It wasn’t often that Ross Bradford stopped in the middle of a course of action to reconsider his decision. He held the flashlight as far out as he could reach, to study the zig-zag trail below him. The wall extended endlessly, to be swallowed up in purple mists.

  He shot the beam upward. He had traversed less than a tenth of the trail. No, it wasn’t worth the risk. Jimpson might have recovered Hank Switcher’s crushed body already. If so, Ross would get word by four-thirty in the morning.

  If the body was lost to the sea, as it probably was, then nothing could be done. Nothing except to make sure that body hadn’t been sacrificed in vain. The way for Ross to make sure was to get back on the job with Graygortch, and avoid every avoidable risk.

  Now he found the upward trail that he had missed on the descent. A few feet along the way he stopped, startled by a faint light that was growing out of the rocks below the level of the castle.

  He snapped off his flashlight, clung to the wall, waited. He was breathing heavily, his swollen wrists were throbbing, but he thought nothing of that. The light was moving, growing brighter.

  Suddenly it emerged from what appeared to be a narrow opening beneath the foundation of the castle. It was a candle beam. Back of it was the brown weather-beaten face of Jimpson.

  The crippled man was partly concealed by the ledges, but Ross could see that he was slogging along on his knees, holding up the candle with one hand. His eyes were peering down into the blackness.

  So Fantella had somehow communicated with this curious fellow, telling him that he was about to have a visitor. Either that, or he had been hiding under the castle and had heard Ross clambering down among the ropes.

  Ross answered the candle with a flashlight signal, and after a few minutes’ return climb he joined the crippled man.

  “This way, Mister Bradford,” said Jimpson as pertly as if he were a bell boy conducting a guest into a swanky hotel. “We’ve been expecting you.”

  “Did you say we?”

  “We’ve been expecting you,” Jimpson repeated, spitting a piece of seaweed. “This way, please.”