by Don Wilcox
“Today Graygortch has taken me into his confidence,” he said quietly. “His plans for you and me, Vivian, are clear enough. But they’re not our plans. They’re plans so fraught with death and destruction that I hardly dare tell you.”
“I’d better hear the worst,” said Vivian. “I’m desperate from guessing.” Her dirt-streaked face was pale in the candle’s gleam.
“Perhaps I’ll tell you, then, later. But I have a plan of my own. You three are the only ones I dare confide in. And time is growing short.” Ross paused, drew a slow deep breath.
“You three must trust me,” he couldn’t hold back the ominous tone that crept into his voice. “You must believe that I have come to know Bill Graygortch as none of the rest of you know him. Fm convinced we mustn’t wait for him to die.”
Vivian gasped, “You mean—”
“For the good of all people, Vivian—the people you’ve warned on your radio against coming storms—and millions of other people like them, I’ve got to do it—the sooner the better. I’ve got to kill Bill Graygortch.”
CHAPTER XX
A clatter of footsteps sounded on the basement stairs and a female voice sang down through the waste chute.
“Meester Bradford, vare are you?”
“Here, Fantella.” Ross marched over to the waste heap and looked up through the shaft. “What’s up?”
“Iss everything safe?” she whispered. Reassured, she said, “Maybe it’s ghosts, and maybe it’s visskey, but der guards haf come back from der East Village saying Vivian might be hiding at dot place. Effry vun dey asked say he has seen a beautiful girl—a strange girl. But dey couldn’t find her.”
“A strange girl,” Ross echoed. “Well, we won’t be bothered, Fantella.”
Hank spoke up. “That must be Sue Smith. Sure—that’s who it is. She’s still on the trail of that screwball Japanese.”
“You’d better come up, Meester Bradford,” said Fantella. “Dere’s bad news about Meester Schubert, vot followed Rouse to der village.”
“What happened?”
“Rouse dumbusted him ofer der head. He’s at der doctor’s in der East Village, and dey say he knows something, but he von’t talk to nobody but you, Meester Bradford.”
“Thanks, Fantella. I’ll go over to the village yet tonight. I can depend on you to keep things going.”
“Dot’s me. I’ll keep ’em looking vor der right people in der wrong places.”
Rumors were running riot through the castle by the time Ross ascended to the South Pole plaza. The situation was a delicate one. It was up to him to pretend great concern over the story that Vivian was hiding in the East Village.
But the rumors didn’t stop with that. Why, everyone was asking, had she run away to the East Village? Was it because Jag Rouse had gone there? No one believed, of course, that Vivian was secretly in love with the ex-captain. But perhaps he had a leverage on her, and had somehow frightened her into following him.
It seemed likely, too, the sailors and maids were telling themselves, that the report about Schubert dovetailed with this line of reasoning. No doubt Schubert had secret knowledge of Rouse’s designs upon the girl, which knowledge he would impart only to Ross Bradford.
Ross listened to these ingenuous rumors with an attitude of credulity. He hastened to confer with Graygortch.
Again, the same story. The old man was twitchy from his withered old face down to his toes. He sat hunched weakly over his desk, crushing his thin fingers against his gray forehead.
“Take all the guards with you, Bradford,” Graygortch said, “just so you bring her back. My time is growing short.”
“I prefer to go alone,” Ross said.
“As you will,” said Graygortch. “But do you know why your search party failed to bring her back?”
“They were afraid of violence,” said Ross.
“And rightly so,” said the old man. “They were too badly outnumbered to risk a fight. That East Village is infested with desperate men. I advise that you take the whole force of guards—”
“And leave the castle unprotected?”
“This castle will stand—and I will live—until I have transferred my powers to Vivian. Bring her back.”
“I will,” said Ross, “but I’ll go alone. I’ve picked up a dependable weapon and I know how to use it.”
As he spoke he drew a light revolver from his pocket and weighed it in his hand. The old man barely glanced at it, then he again buried his troubled head in his hands, muttering, “Go on. You’ve no time to lose.”
Ross looked at the revolver, glanced at Graygortch. Impulsively Ross’ steady hand tightened on the weapon.
“Right,” he said in a low, tight voice. “I’ve no time to lose.”
“Well?” Graygortch spread his thin angers and slowly raised his head. His wrinkled old eyes lifted and he might have looked into the barrel of Ross’ revolver, but at that moment a knock sounded at the door.
“Shall I valk right in?” Fantella called.
As the door swung open Ross thrust the gun back in his pocket. Fantella breezed into the room with a tray of tea things.
“Maybe you vasn’t ready for der midnight lunch yet?”
“I’m ready,” said Graygortch. “Bradford was just leaving.”
Ross stormed down the hallway muttering to himself. With all the real trouble he had on his hands he was going to have to chase off on a false mission—to rescue a girl who wasn’t there—just to keep his own private hoax from falling through. But he did want to see Schubert.
Moreover, if it was true that Dr. Zimmerman, the man who used to care for Graygortch, was in East Village, there might be a chance to get some new light on these strange happenings.
Ross waved aside the party of sailors waiting on the porch, expecting an order to accompany him.
“I’ll make it alone,” he snapped.
They grunted with surprise, but were obviously relieved. He also refused their offers to sketch a map of the mountain trail for him, but paused long enough to catch a description of the doctor’s office where Schubert was being cared for. Then he marched on around the castle walk, out of their sight.
He hurried back to the rear porch. There he found Jimpson, Hank, and Vivian waiting. A moment later Fantella joined them in the heavy shadows of the cliff’s edge. It was just midnight. The sky was black, the light breeze of the early evening had ceased. The lapping waters five hundred feet below were barely audible.
“It’ll be easier by boat,” said Jimpson. “This way, gents. And are the ladies going too?”
“No,” said Ross.
“I want to go with you,” said Vivian.
“You mustn’t,” said Ross. “It’s too dangerous.”
“That’s why I’m going,” Vivian declared with a touch of temper.
“Since I’m going to look for you,” said Ross, “I couldn’t possibly take you along. I’m taking Hank. That’s all.”
“Meester Bradford knows best,” said Fantella. “Ve’ll go only vun or two steps down der trail, to make sure dot Jimpson don’t push you off.”
Ross knew well enough that Fantella was simply keeping her eye on Vivian, to put her back in hiding as soon as he and Hank were gone. But there was no danger that guards would cross their paths along this cliff edge. All search parties had turned in for the night on the strength of the report from the East Village.
“Here’s the other hidden descent I was telling you about,” said Jimpson, crawling along at the head of the party. “It veers to the east, and you’ll find it a pleasure after trying the one on the face of the cliff. When you get to the bottom, my boat is hidden among the crags to the right, under a pile of tree limbs.”
“We’ll find it,” said Ross.
“Best of luck,” said Jimpson, and he crawled back toward the foundation of the castle.
Hank took a light and jogged on down the trail. Ross turned to Vivian.
“Suscuse me,” said Fantella. Evidently her eyes saw
through the dark well enough to know that Ross was folding the girl into his arms. “I tink I go back a vew steps and count der stars, vot dare ain’t any of.”
Hank called from down the trail. “You coming, Ross?”
“In a moment.”
It was a breathless moment. Vivian was whispering trivial things to him so earnestly that he wondered what had happened to the little spitfire she used to be. He reassured her.
“Of course I’ll be careful, Vivian . . . I know they’re a bad bunch over at the village, but I can walk around trouble . . . Yes, I promise I won’t get myself killed—not if I see Rouse first . . . Poor kid, you’re all scared, aren’t you? I don’t blame you . . . Come on, give me a funny little smile.”
Then he was kissing her, and the whole world must have stopped breathing while her heart pounded close against his.
“But what if you never came back,” she whispered.
“Then Graygortch couldn’t make you marry me,” Ross said. “But I’ll be back before dawn. And if possible, I’ll bring Dr. Zimmerman back here with me.”
“Please do,” said Vivian. “Maybe if you talked with him you wouldn’t do that—that terible thing—”
“For your sake I hope I won’t have to. I had a chance only a few minutes ago—with this revolver—but it wasn’t easy—and I know how you feel. You think there’s still a chance to bring him back to himself—”
“Yes, that’s it,” she gasped eagerly. “He does come back in his sleep, you know.”
“I know,” said Ross. The old man’s change of character during his sleepwalking of the previous night was as baffling as anything Ross had seen. “But whatever I have to do, I want you to believe I think it’s for the best.”
“I will believe it,” Vivian breathed. “From now on I’m trusting you all the way, Ross.”
“Do you mean it? Enough to pack your things?” Ross sought her face anxiously. “Then do it, Vivian. Have Fantella smuggle you back into your room. Pack your cases for a long trip—”
“A long trip? You mean—you are going to kill him?”
“I don’t know. But I’m sure of this. If something isn’t done within the next day or two, he and his disciples of death will crack the world wide open.”
Vivian’s lithe body trembled in Ross’s arms.
“I—I don’t know what you mean— but I’ll pack—for a long trip.”
CHAPTER XXI
Down at the water’s edge Ross and Hank threw the tree branches aside, untied the boat, and pulled it out of the hidden cove. In a moment their oars were dipping rhythmically. The waters were calm, the rowboat was a light, trim craft that made good speed.
“Listen,” said Hank. “If I had a pencil I’d jot down some local color for my next book. Got a pencil, Ross?”
“Keep right on rowing,” said Ross. “But listen—”
From somewhere beyond the black horizon came the low thunder of a sea battle, too far away for the flashes of fire to be seen. Somewhere out in that endless blackness, convoys were taking it on the chin.
An hour later, as Ross and Hank were rounding a mountainous point, they saw five bombers roar over—American bombers bound for an English airport.
“There we go,” Hank muttered, “but for the grace of God.”
“We’ve got our own war now,” said Ross. “England and her Allies will never know how much our war means to theirs.”
“Meaning what?” said Hank. “Meaning that if this devil of a Graygortch puts his big purpose in life over, Hitler and the other twelve disciples of death will engulf us like wildfire. They’ll have a power that all the good work in the world can’t stop.”
“You think Graygortch is a Nazi?”
“He’s worse than a Nazi,” Ross muttered. “He’s some new brand of devil, if you want my candid opinion.”
Hank gulped weakly, “I’d like to argue that out with you but I’m sure as hell not up to it. I’ve seen that little earthquake tower of Graygortch’s do enough calisthenics that I get a chill to think of it.”
The lights of the village emerged from behind a shoulder of black mountain. Hank spotted a landing place; Ross caught his bearings from the surrounding scene. Then they pulled in, hid the rowboat, and struck out on foot. As soon as they found a path they extinguished their flashlights.
The village was far from asleep. Lighted houses or taverns were noisy with raucous voices. Revelry and argument, drinking and gambling were evidently the rule all night long in these quarters. The place had nothing in common with the quaint little fishermen’s village at the farther end of the island.
“Come on out and. join us, you cowards. We dare you . . .”
Ross and Hank caught sight of what appeared to be a twelve or fifteen-man mob parading down the single street, shouting and blustering their challenge to their fellow-citizens to come join them. What a notion, thought Ross, running around at one-thirty in the night organizing gangs for the sheer excitement of it. He and Hank gave this weird night-traffic a wide berth. The unlighted outskirts of the village seemed the wiser route for strangers to take.
They spotted the lighted house on the knoll a short distance back from the village. That was the doctor’s office. They found it barricaded by a fence of close-set timbers, and a locked gate.
But there was a bell and it brought a prompt answer.
“Dr. Zimmerman?” Ross asked.
“I’m his servant,” said the man, unlocking the gate.
“I’m Ross Bradford, and this is a friend of mine. I was told that Schubert. one of my guards—”
“Yes—come right in.”
The servant locked the gate behind them and led the way up the steps.
“He’s just about gone,” the servant whispered, conducting them into the dim blue light of a hallway. “He was all smashed up when they brought him in. Broken back, crushed-in ribs—”
“God!” Hank muttered. “How’d he get such a beating?”
“Oh, it’s no more remarkable than the average around here. They’re always going after each other with clubs of lead pipes. The doctor no more than gets one batch of ’em civilized till another batch breaks loose with a shooting or a knife act. If they’d only pay him for half the bandages—”
“Quiet,” said Ross. “I hear him calling.”
“Not calling, choking. But go right in,” the servant whispered. “His delirium has run down, finally, but maybe he’ll still recognize you.”
Ross approached the bedside, looked down at the battered mass. He’d hardly have known it was Schubert except for the funny mouth with the overhanging teeth. Death was taking over. The fellow’s face was chalk white, his eyelids were half closed.
But as Ross spoke to him, the eyes opened and gave a little turn of recognition.
“I hear you wanted to tell me something,” Ross said.
Schubert turned his eyes away. His time for talking was past. But at this point the servant interceded.
“He’s told it all, and the girl took it down. She claimed she was your friend, and this fellow knew the telling wouldn’t wait.”
“Okay,” said Ross. He placed a hand on the dying man’s head. “Thanks, Schubert, old man, for all you’ve done . . . But I sure didn’t mean to let you in for this pay-off.”
Schubert made a last effort to speak, but the words wouldn’t come. Then his funny mouth, as expressionless as ever, emitted a low whistle—a bit of melody.
“The wedding march?” said Ross. “Don’t worry, Schubert. I’ll see that that turns out all right.”
One of Schubert’s eyes gave a faint hint of a wink, then both eyes went closed.
In another room Ross and Hank held a brief consultation with the servant.
“Here’s some money to cover the poor fellow’s burial,” said Ross. “By the way, what did the doctor do for him? Anything besides first aid bandages?”
“The doctor hasn’t seen him,” said the servant.
“Why not?”
“He’s gone
—over to the other village. Lots of business over there recently. Besides, lie’s shipping his wife off the island for the duration of the war.”
“Will he back tonight?”
“Doubt it. He said he was going to stay and hound that British agent till he got some action—and that might be days.”
“What kind of action?”
The servant’s lips tightened. “Are you a Nazi?”
“Certainly not.”
“Well, you might be, for all I know. Besides I’ve already told all I know.”
“What happened to Sue Smith, the girl that took down Schubert’s talk?” Hank asked.
“Her things are still here,” said the servant. “She’s been staying here with the doctor and his wife, and when they left she told them she’d come on a little later, but first she had some more writing to do. Then this fight happened, and when she came down from her room and heard this fellow calling for Ross Bradford, she stuck around until he spilled his story to her. By the way—”
The servant picked up at note book from the library table.
“Here’s what the fellow dictated to her. She said you’d be coming, Bradford, and I should give it to you.”
Ross moved to the table lamp to read the finely written words. Hank, who had once fallen in love with Sue Smith upon his first glimpse of her handwriting, bent over Ross’ shoulder.
The rambling message read:
This girl says she is a friend of yours and she’ll sure get this message to you. So here goes. I don’t know what your real game is, Bradford. If you’re pulling a fast one on Graygortch and us sailors, it’s no hair off my neck.
Anyhow you’re okay by me, and I figure you’ll fight your battle to a finish. I picked you to win when you first showed your face at the castle gate.
You see, I had a soft place in my heart for that cute little Vivian. I wanted her to get the right man. That’s why I poisoned Graygortch against Jag Rouse. Jag knew it, and he knew I was too clever for him. But I slipped today. Two hours after we got here he was already working up steam for his attack on the castle—and that’s what I especially wanted to warn you about. He went to work, and I shadowed him, figuring he’d forgot about me. But he hadn’t, and he suddenly turned on me with a baseball bat.