by Don Wilcox
He hasn’t forgot you, either. So look out for him. He’ll march on you when you least expect it. He’s trying to pull the whole town in on his scheme. So you better double the guard on the castle.
That’s about all, Bradford. Sorry I slipped, but I know you’ll make it good.
Oh, yes, there’s one thing more. This girl that’s taking down my words has a cockeyed notion she’s going out and throw a monkey wrench into Rouse’s game. Tell her to lay off. That guy ain’t to be played with. I know.
“Hell, she’s still here,” Hank muttered as he finished the message. “Come on, Ross.”
Ross thrust the notebook in his pocket and turned to the servant.
“If she comes in, tell her we’re looking for her. We’ll be back in an hour if we don’t find her.”
The servant saw them to the gate and locked it behind them. They headed straight for the lighted street where they had seen the night throng parading.
“Where there’s excitement, that’s where you’ll find Sue Smith,” said Hank proudly. “She’s not afraid of anything.”
“Listen!” Ross hissed.
“Yeah—that’s your ex-captain’s voice,” Hank whispered.
“He’s making a speech. Schubert was right . . .”
They slipped along a shadowed alley. A bonfire was burning at the intersection of the two principal streets. A crowd of some eighty or a hundred assorted men, variously armed, stood around the fire in a circle. The bigshouldered ex-captain was pacing back and forth as he addressed them,
Ross and Hank held to the shadows. “Look at that gallery of faces,” Hank whispered.
“They look like trouble.” Ross took an uneasy breath. “We don’t know our grounds here. The best thing for us is to find that girl and shove off.”
“Listen at him rave,” Hank’s eyes widened, reflecting the flicker of the bonfire. “He’s been here less than half a day and already they’re eating out of his hand.”
“It’s his magnetic personality, boys,” said a female voice behind them. “One side, please.”
Hank ducked like a turtle bobbing into its shell, gasping. “Don’t shoot—” Ross whirled, more alarmed by Hank than the girl’s voice, which was a comparatively harmless voice.
Then Ross’ eyes, still dancing with the flames of the bonfire, came to rest on a pretty, snappily dressed American girl. Apparently she was armed with nothing more dangerous than pencil and notebook. She was writing with furious speed.
“Sue!” Hank murmured.
“Not now, Hank. I’m busy,” she snapped. “One side, please. You’re blocking my view.”
Ross, at first puzzled by her abrupt manner, soon saw that she was taking down the ex-captain’s speech, word by word. This was strange business, he thought. Here within a stone’s throw of those dangerous men, here at two-thirty in the night, this girl had planted herself in a dark doorway—to copy the violent and ungrammatical ravings of one Jag Rouse.
“I told you she’s doing a newspaper job on Hinko, the Japanese,” Hank whispered. “She’s still on the trail.”
Up to this time Ross hadn’t taken particular notice of the small dark Oriental near the center of the throng. But now he recalled having seen that important little figure once before. It was the same fiery little Japanese with the big sword who got chased off the castle grounds a few mornings ago. The little man had recovered his dignity in a wonderful way.
Rouse’s speech terminated abruptly, and was greeted with a volley of shouting and noise-making. As he retired to the crowd, it was the swaggering little Japanese who marched up to take his place.
“You have heard the honorable gentleman’s plea that you make him your leader,” Hinko’s voice rang out in a thin Oriental twang. “I assume that he would be pleased to have you storm the gates for him and make him your hero when you have won his battle. But I ask you, who deserves to be the leader of this attack? He or I?”
There was a wild clamor that attested to a lack of unity in the ranks. The Japanese waved his sword with a militant gesture.
“This attack was not his idea. It was our own plan, conceived several days ago. And now that the plan is ripe, like a delicious fruit, is it fair for him to come and pick it?”
Ross glanced at Sue Smith’s flying fingers. She was even recording the scrambled omelet of shouts that the crowd hurled back at their orator.
“I ask you,” the speaker went on, “who has come from the farthest land in answer to the magnetic call? It is I. Who has organized this march on the castle gates? It is I. Who is so rightfully your strong man—your leader of leaders—so convinced of his power that he would sooner commit hara-kiri than fail in his purpose? It is I.
“And what has this newcomer done to prove his power? He has flown at a man half his size and beat him to pulp with a club. What if he does have one arm wrapped in a bandage? Is breaking a man’s back with a club any feat to glorify a leader? Is there anyone within the sound of my voice who hasn’t done as much himself?
“Then let me put the question to a vote. How many of you favor me—”
A bellowing NO! from Jag Rouse drowned Hinko’s words. The Japanese drew his sword back threateningly, but its gleam was matched by the revolver that Jag Rouse flashed ominously in the firelight. However, it was voice rather than weapons that gave Jag Rouse his advantage.
“Listen to me,” he roared, and the hills echoed back of him. “I’m the only living man who has ever stood at the top of the tower with Graygortch during the storms. I’m the only man among you who knows the castle and the grounds. And one thing more. When we’ve crashed the gates and taken possession, I’ll make every one of you a disciple of death, just like Hitler, Goebbels, Goering, and all the rest. You, too, can be a Hitler—and soon—perhaps tomorrow night. I’ll lead you on the first black night.”
This brought such a thundering cheer that Jag Rouse turned on Hinko with an incinerating smile. Jag had won them over and he was quick to play his advantage. He bellowed:
“And if our little friend here is a man of his word—if he insists on committing hara-kiri because he’s missed the boat, I say to him—”
At the peak of his oratorical powers Jag Rouse left a sentence unfinished, for at that precise moment the fiery little Oriental drew his sword and plunged it into his own stomach.
The crowd swayed and surged forward and a chorus of low voices rasped with surprise.
Back in the shadows Sue Smith dropped her pencil and notebook, ran out toward the crowd. Ross sprang after her, jerked her back into the darkness.
“I’ve got to see!” she gasped.
But there was an opening in the ranks of the throng and the three spectators watching from the alley caught a clear view of the action.
Hinko crowded the sword hard into his belly, twisted it, yanked it sharply to one side. Doubled up on the ground, he emitted a wild scream that echoed out through the night’s blackness. Then his arms fell limp.
The cold silence was broken by low rattling laughter from Jag Rouse.
CHAPTER XXII
They rowed back by way of the fishermen’s village. If Dr. Zimmerman was still on the island, Ross intended to see him, regardless of the hour.
The first gray of dawn was upon them by the time they shipped oars at the fishermen’s wharf. Sue Smith, who had been jotting notes on the gory climax of her hara-kiri research, irrespective of darkness and a bumpy boat, hastily packed her notebooks away. Hank helped her out of the boat with conspicuous gallantry.
“At your service, Beautiful.”
“Very kind of you, Sir Walter, r’ally.”
Ross, having made the boat fast, joined them. The trio jogged up the stony path toward the office of the British agent.
“By George, there’s a light still burning,” Ross observed.
Through the window they could see the clean-cut young British agent and an older man bending over a table, apparently studying a map.
“That’s Dr. Zimmerman with the silver hair
,” said Sue. “Looks like he’s had an all night conference with the agent.” She raised her voice. “Hi-yo, Silver!”
The alarm brought only the slightest response from the two preoccupied men. The British agent gave an automatic nod toward the open door, as if to tell Ross and his party they were welcome to enter. They trooped in and seated themselves on the bench.
“Well, that finishes the plans for the air base,” said the doctor with a sigh of satisfaction. He put his spectacles in his pocket, looked at his watch. “Bless my soul, it’s almost morning. And here you’ve got three customers already . . . Well, Miss Smith, what’s new?”
“Plenty,” said Sue. “My H.K. case jumped off the deep end. Stabbed himself amidships because a big bully came along and stole his glory.”
She quickly sketched the developments that were hatching among the malcontents of East Village.
“So they’re organizing to march on the castle,” the doctor frowned. Ross saw at once that there were intense depths of feeling in this tall well-built silver-haired man, recalling stories of the old friendship that had once existed between him and Graygortch.
“A march on the castle,” the curt young British agent echoed. “There we are again, Doctor. More trouble. One more argument on top of all I’ve given you.”
“Yes, yes,” the doctor was impatiently defensive, and yet there was in his manner an effort at fairness. “One more argument, as you say. I suppose I’ve simply postponed trouble . . . I don’t know why . . .”
“I know why,” the young agent said. “You’re a sentimentalist. Just because you spent your best years playing checkers with an old crony, you won’t face the fact that he’s gone mad.”
“All right, you’ve said all that before,” the doctor shrugged.
“And you won’t face the fact that he’s aiding the Nazi cause.”
“That, I insist, is simply a coincident,” the doctor said.
“Coincident or intent,” the British agent snapped, “the result is all the same. Every week it happens—two or three freighters are demolished, planes are blown right out of the skies, bombers being flown over from America are—”
The British agent broke off, turned his argument toward Ross.
“Here’s an instance right in our midst,” he said. “This man, Doctor, is an American volunteer pilot who was slapped down out of the sky only a few nights ago. He and his pal can tell you—”
“Am I doubting it?” the doctor asked. “I regret the accident, of course. But the mysterious nature of such accidents is more than we can hope to understand.”
“You’re stubborn. You’ve continually held out against the thing I’ve proposed,” said the agent. “Except for you I would have ordered a military assault on that castle—”
“No! It’s not a military objective. Old Bill Graygortch was as loyal a British subject as I ever knew. He could never intend any harm—”
“You’re a blind, stupid fool, Doctor,” the young agent exploded. “I’m warning you. If you haven’t enough influence with Graygortch to stop this business, I won’t be accountable for what happens. The fact is, I fully expect British bombers to fly over and do their worst the next time there’s a storm.”
The big silver-haired doctor stiffened. “I suppose you’ve ordered them to come and take action?”
“I’ve received official warning that they will come the very next time any damage is reported. Now that we’ve completed plans for an air and sub base here, you know they’re not going to tolerate these man-made earthquakes.”
“If I x:ould only talk with Bill,” said Dr. Zimmerman, “the way I used to talk with him—”
“He’s had his official warnings from this office repeatedly,” the agent went on. “Personally, I think nothing short of a mop-up will do it. Now: If those damned East Villagers are in a mood to march up the mountain and clean house, I’m for them. I’ll authorize it. It’s the very thing we need, Doctor. Don’t you see—”
At this point Ross broke into the argument.
“I beg to disagree.”
“On what grounds?”
“We’ve just come from East Village,” said Ross, “and I wouldn’t trust that gang of cutthroats to make paper dolls. They wouldn’t put an end to the storms. Their plan is to take over the storm apparatus and use it themselves. After all, it’s just a big massive electrical machine.”
Both Dr. Zimmerman and the agent looked at Ross skeptically. Hank gave Sue Smith a nudge and a whisper. “Look at ’em burn up. They hate to be told.”
“Yes,” said the curt young agent, “we presume it’s a machine—”
“I know damned well it’s a machine,” said Ross. “I’ve seen it.”
Dr. Zimmerman turned to Sue Smith. “Does this young man know what he’s talking about?”
“He ought to,” said Sue. “He’s been up in the castle tower. He’s beat the death trap. He’s been made the chief of Graygortch’s guards. And he’s just told me he’s talked with the engineer that put the storm machine together.”
“Wait a minute. Not so fast.”
Her final claim was too much for Dr. Zimmerman, who shook his head decisively.
“No, Miss Smith. That talk doesn’t go. The engineer who did the job went down the death trap years ago—”
“And lived,” said Ross. “His name’s Jimpson. The fall crippled him, but he’s still kicking. By the way, he lent us our rowboat last night.”
Dr. Zimmerman’s face did an assortment of blank stares. For a moment all he could do was repeat his conviction that Jimpson was dead.
A brown, bewhiskered hermit living among the crags at the foot of the castle cliff? Yes, he’d heard of such a creature, but no fisherman had ever bothered to inquire the fellow’s name. So that was Jimpson!
“You’ve stumbled onto a lot of things, young man,” said Dr. Zimmerman, eyeing Ross with warm approval.
“I’m trying to get to the bottom of this mess,” said Ross. “I could use your help, Doctor.”
The big silver-haired man turned to Susan Smith. “Young lady, why didn’t you tell me about all this before?”
“Don’t you remember,” Sue rejoined, “I said I’d met a screwball writer named Hank—”
“I object,” said Hank.
“—who had a pilot friend named Bradford that was a genius—and the last I knew, the two of them had got swallowed up in the castle? Well, these are the birds. Don’t be misled by their simple faces, Doc. They pack some, hidden wallops.”
The British agent snapped his fingers impatiently. “Bradford, what’s your opinion about this castle menace? If you’ve had an inside view aren’t you convinced the old man’s crazy?”
“The problem’s not that simple,” said Ross. “But I agree with you that the thing’s got to be stopped—and soon—for more reasons than you know.”
“But how?”
“The simplest thing,” said Ross, “would be to administer a mercy killing to the old man.”
The doctor caught his breath. “I’m not sure it could be done,”
“Why not?”
“As a doctor, I can’t give any scientific reason. But as a close observer of what happened several years ago, when Graygortch almost died, I have my doubts about the effectiveness of any effort to kill him, even if we were willing to try.”
“I don’t get you,” Hank blurted.
“I believe,” the doctor said, “that Graygortch can’t be made to die.”
For a full minute no one said anything. Ross’ gaze roved toward the out-of-doors, lingered on the heavy gray mists of dawn. A thin rain was in the air.
“Daylight’s on us,” he said. “We’ve got to hurry on to the castle. Troubles are brewing fast up there, but I’ll keep you both in touch.”
“Bradford,” said Dr. Zimmerman, “if I can be of any help—short of doing harm to my old friend—let me know.”
Ross studied the big silver-haired man closely. There was no denying his sincerity. His blind spot wa
s centered on one deep-rooted sentiment—friendship. If this could be set aside, Dr. Zimmerman might be a useful ally.
“I wish you’d come up to the castle,” Ross said. “I need you.”
The doctor nodded slowly. “If you think it’s safe. I was thrown out the last time—”
“I’ll guarantee your safety. Come to the main gate. This afternoon? . . . Good. You’ll arrive in time for a wedding, but don’t take it too seriously.”
“I’ll come,” said Dr. Zimmerman . . .
They rowed back to the foot of the hidden trail, camouflaged the boat with tree limbs, and ascended, under a shroud of mist, to the rear door of the castle. With Fantella’s help they smuggled themselves in without being seen.
Hank returned to the sub-basement quarters to remain in hiding.
Susan Smith was conducted to Vivian’s private quarters.
Ross repaired to his own room and slept till mid-forenoon.
On awakening he summoned a sailor to dispatch the news to Graygortch and the rest of the castle that he had found Vivian and brought her back unharmed.
The sailor returned shortly with the news Ross expected, Graygortch had set the wedding for that afternoon, an hour before sundown . . .
By mid-afternoon the sun was baking down on the castle grounds.
A squad of soldiers met Dr. Zimmerman at the gate, escorted him, with a show of dignity born of a recent curtain-lecture, up the steps and onto the castle porch. Sailors and maids stopped work to peek at the newcomer. This was strange treatment being meted out to a visitor. But Bradford, the new chief, made a practice of doing things his own way, they whispered, and took themselves back to work.
Bradford led the doctor around to a spacious section of porch where shade, a sea-breeze, and a pitcher of ice-water made for perfect comfort.
“There’s been many a change,” Dr. Zimmerman observed, “since I last saw this place. All these timber reinforcements are new.”