The Complete Novels

by Don Wilcox

  “The castle has had to be reinforced top to bottom, inside and out,” said Ross.

  “I can readily appreciate that,” said the doctor. “Every time we get a storm from the tower I expect my office to flatten. I always lose several bottles of valuable medicine. Which reminds me—”

  The doctor opened a small medicine case, selected a little yellow box.

  “I’ve been thinking over our morning’s discussion. These bizarre demonstrations Bill Graygortch is said to give during his somnambulant walks strike me as being particularly significant. Are you familiar with the phenomena I refer to?”

  “Quite,” said Ross. “I had the pleasure of seeing one of these exhibitions recently.”

  “Is it true that his manner was quite different?”

  “A complete contrast,” said Ross. “While it lasted he was as charming and gentle an old fellow as I ever saw.”

  “That,” said Dr. Zimmerman, “is Bill Graygortch as I know him.”

  “I wish you could have been here. By the way, he asked for you.”

  The doctor weighed the little yellow pill box in his hand uneasily.

  “If there’s anything I dislike,” he said, “it’s turning an old friend into a case study.”

  “I understand,” said Ross. “But if you were convinced that all human life over the face of this earth was going to suffer—possibly die—because of Bill Graygortch—”

  “I’d manage to put sentiment aside,” the doctor said grimly.

  Ross wanted to shake his hand, for he know what a fight it must have been for this silver-haired old sentimentalist to come to this decision.

  “His conduct while walking in his sleep,” said Zimmerman, “may give us our key to the mystery. So I brought my medicine kit.”

  “Some pills to cause sleep?”

  “More particularly to cause disturbed sleep,” said the doctor. “Maybe they’re not quite strong enough to make a paralyzed man walk in his sleep, but they’d make him try. So they should bring some results for us this evening, if I may stay here through the dinner hour.”

  “You’re only too welcome. You’ll have the special privilege of preparing Graygortch’s meal,” said Ross.

  The clink of a bell announced that someone was emerging from a hallway leading to the porch. With slow unsteady footsteps the aged Graygortch came into view.

  Fantella evidently had put the finishing touches to the old man’s preparations for the wedding, for his long-tailed coat was neatly brushed, and there was a white rose in his lapel. A touch of powder softened the sharp lines of his face.

  As Ross stepped to his side, Graygortch mumbled some low words of praise for the return of his niece. Vivian had come in to see him, had appeared none the worse for her frightening runaway experience.

  This said, Graygortch started to totter off in the other direction.

  “One moment, your honor,” said Ross. “An old friend of yours has come to see you. Look.”

  Graygortch stopped. His arms drew to his sides defensively and the wrinkles around his eyes tightened.

  “Here he is,” said Ross, motioning Dr. Zimmerman to step up and join them.

  The doctor obeyed hesitantly, then shaking off his timidity he approached with a genial smile and offered his hand.

  “How are you, Bill Graygortch? I’m your old friend Zim. It’s been nine years—”

  “I don’t know you,” said Graygortch coldly.

  He turned his head away sharply, gave his shoulders a perturbed twist. He walked to the next porch entrance before he said any more. Then he shot hard glaring eyes back at the doctor.

  “Whoever you are, you don’t belong here. You’d better leave.”

  CHAPTER XXIII

  The wedding took place on the east porch.

  Unlike most weddings, as Fantella was heard to remark afterward, it came off precisely according to plan. The mystical Graygortch was seeing his way, step by step, to the fulfillment of his scheme.

  The silver-haired doctor, Ross noted, was wise enough to keep himself in the background during the ceremony. But Fantella and all the maids crowded close around the porch rails, whispering excitedly. Ross could hear them, during those tense moments before the ceremony began, wagering that Vivian wouldn’t go through with it.

  The sailors, too, watched with skeptical eyes. They knew that their sinister old master had decreed this union, and they fully expected their dashing young chief to declare himself in some spectacular manner.

  Since Bradford had come all the way from America to be a candidate, they reasoned, he ought to carry the event off with an air of victory, like a high-class criminal that puts over a big bank robbery and a couple of killings. Or if he had changed his mind about the girl, they would expect him to break out of the traces before he was hitched. They were doomed to disappointment, for he did neither. To the sailors he was an enigma.

  But it was Vivian’s private reactions that interested Ross most.

  A moment or two before Graygortch gave the signal for the ceremony to begin, Ross and Vivian exchanged words in the hallway.

  “I suppose you’ve got something planned to break up the ceremony,” Vivian said, searching his expression.

  “I wouldn’t depend on it,” said Ross.

  “You’re expecting that attack from the East Villagers—”

  “No,” said Ross. “I’ve got lookout men posted but they haven’t seen any activity.”

  “Am I to believe, Mr. Bradford,” her voice was tinged with temper, “that you are going to calmly and deliberately marry me?”

  “Your uncle’s orders, dear,” Ross smiled.

  “Oh, I see. Then you’re only doing it to please him?”

  “Isn’t that your reason?” Come, we’ve got to do a good job of pretending or we’ll be in trouble.”

  “You don’t want to marry me, really, do you?”

  Ross smiled. The sudden flare-up of her spitfire nature was amusing. “Are you proposing to me, my dear?”

  “Ross, you’re exasperating! When I ran away I should have stayed—”

  “S-s-sh! You’re supposed to be looking happy,” Ross warned. He added in a low voice, “Don’t forget, you’re packing your things for a long trip.”

  The note of sincerity brought him a quick eager look.

  “You do mean it, don’t you?”

  “Vivian, this marriage may be a sham, but somewhere there’s a real one waiting—if we can fight out of this tangle with your uncle.”

  At that moment Fantella swept past, caught Vivian by the arm, led her across to another porch door. Graygortch signalled for bride and bridegroom to come before him, he read a brief ritual, the couple repeated their vows and were declared man and wife.

  At which point Ross spoke a few sharp words to cut short any further festivity. This impending invasion from the East Village was no idle rumor, he warned. It was time to forget weddings and think about the dangers at hand.

  “Get back to your posts,” he said. “It may not come today, but whenever it comes, our sailors aren’t going to be caught napping. Remember Schubert!”

  It was during the dinner hour that Ross had a brief exchange of words with Graygortch.

  He had contrived to drop into the master’s study at that time, to make sure the tray of foods tempted Graygortch’s appetite, Dr. Zimmerman and Fantella having cooperated in its preparation.

  The old man talked as he ate.

  “Bradford, this attack that you and the others fear does not worry me.”

  “No?”

  “I am confident you will repel it. That is your job now, for all the years to come.”

  “You honor me with your confidence,” said Ross.

  “Attacks will come and go. But you will always stand firm, championing the cause that I know you represent. In your simple language, the cause of evil.”

  Ross, drew a long painful breath before responding.

  “But suppose—” his voice grew tight, “suppose that Jag Rouse a
nd his gang should fight their way past us? What if they should rush the castle and find you—unprotected? . . . What if they should kill you?”

  The old man might not have heard, for he did not look up but went on slowly plying his fork with his thin brown fingers. Ross felt beads of perspiration gathering on the backs of his own hands. His question had plunged too deep. Could it be answered only with hard silence?

  “I may die,” said Graygortch, “before the attack comes. Very soon I will transfer my powers to Vivian. Do you understand?”

  “Yes.”

  “You must both be ready to accompany me up the spiral stairs for the next storm. I will give you no advance warning. Be ready.”

  Ross nodded. For a moment the old man’s eyes met his in a luminous glare that began to spread like two balls of fire. A sickening sensation struck through Ross, but only for an instant. Then the luminous glare faded and the sensation was gone.

  “Leave me now,” said Graygortch.

  “Very well, your honor.”

  As Ross moved toward the door he noticed that the old man laid down the fork, let his head bow deeply until it came to rest on the crook of his bony arm. The low rattling of a sigh announced that Graygortch was dropping off to sleep . . .

  Ross went straight to Dr. Zimmerman.

  Together they slipped back to the closed door of Graygortch’s study. For several minutes they listened. At last there were sounds of the old man’s moving about, dressing, mumbling to himself.

  “Now we’ll go to the old living room,” Dr. Zimmerman whispered.

  There were more minutes of waiting. Everything was quiet in and about the living room, for Ross had seen to it that the corridor bells were disconnected, and Fantella had stationed dependable maids to divert all traffic.

  Presently the long shadow of Graygortch moved down the hallway and his slow footsteps swished along the deep carpet.

  It was the Bill Graygortch of the old days who tottered in, a tired old man more asleep than awake. He wore bedroom slippers, and the collar of his heavy white sweater was pushed up high around his gaunt brown throat.

  The leathery webs of wrinkles were gathered close around his half-closed eyes, but he held his head high with a grace and dignity that was striking in a man so feeble.

  He moved over toward the fireplace, stretched his hands toward it, then chuckled pleasantly and drew his hands away.

  Ross crouched back in his chair to remain unseen. Obviously the old man was sharper to his surrounding tonight than he had been in a previous sleepwalk, for he had realized that the dead ashes in the fireplace were not a glowing fire.

  He crossed slowly to the right side of the fireplace, eased himself into the old chair, his hands rested limply on the table of checkers.

  Vivian had entered the room without attracting his attention, and she drew up a chair close beside Ross. A moment later Fantella followed, planted her plump knees in the carpet, rested her elbows on the arm of Vivian’s chair, and watched. None of the three observers dared to whisper. They hardly dared breathe.

  Now Dr. Zimmerman sauntered down the right side of the room and spoke casually.

  “Good evening, Bill.”

  “Doc, I’m pretty tired tonight,” Graygortch droned in a low relaxed voice. “But I’ll play you one more game.”

  “Pretty tired, Bill?” The doctor seated himself.

  “I’ll have to go soon, Zim,” said Graygortch. “Can’t hold on much longer . . . You move first.”

  For several minutes they played in silence. Ross could see the doctor’s fingers tremble. Old sentiments were pounding through the silver-haired man’s pulses.

  “Seems to me,” said Graygortch, “that we haven’t played a game for quite a spell.”

  “It’s been some time, Bill,” said the doctor, biting his lips.

  Graygortch lifted his head. “What makes your eyes so watery tonight, Doc? Something troubling you?”

  “I don’t think so.” Zimmerman touched his eyes with a handkerchief.

  “It isn’t like you to be troubled,” said Graygortch. “Anything I can do?”

  “There might be,” said Zimmerman. “It’s about you, Bill. You’re not yourself sometimes. Do you know that?” Graygortch pushed his thin fingers up the side of his face thoughtfully.

  “Yes, I know it. I guess everyone knows it, don’t they?”

  “What’s it like, Bill?”

  Graygortch frowned. “It isn’t at all uncomfortable. It caught me just when I meant to die. I was ready, you know. I’m still waiting.”

  “I thought you were dying,” said Zimmerman.

  The old man nodded. “I would have. But this thing moved in on me. It forced me to keep on living—”

  “What thing?”

  “This—this—well, I don’t know what you’d call it. It’s not something you talk about. There aren’t any words for it. It’s—it’s just there.”

  “What does it feel like? How does it act?”

  “It just takes me over, makes me do things and say things—strange things—things that haven’t anything to do with me.”

  “Do you think it’s something that’s been growing up inside you all these years?”

  “No—no.” Graygortch tapped a checker on the table emphatically. “It’s got nothing to do with me. Rather, it has borrowed my body—simply taken me over—”

  “Why?”

  “I don’t know. I don’t know why it does any of the things it does. But I know it’s a deadly thing—harmful—that’s it—harmful through and through—without any principle—”

  “Do you think it’s someone else’s spirit?”

  Graygortch passed his hand across his forehead uneasily. “I never understood talk about spirits . . . It’s not a person. It’s too big and powerful—like tons of dynamite all packed in one little cartridge: me.”

  “Is it in you now—all the time?” Graygortch shook his head, “When I have to sleep it seems to pass away from me, and just now—well, I must be half asleep. Anyway I had almost forgot it when we started this game. But it’ll come back, and when it does I’m just nothing. Nothing but putty, doing its will, carrying it up the stairs, talking for it, forcing its plans on Vivian and all the others—”

  “And you don’t approve of its plans?”

  “Doc, I’d rather go through all the fires of hell than—what’s the meaning of these senseless questions?” Graygortch suddenly stiffened and his long brown fingers quickly clamped into defiant fists.

  “I’m trying to help you, Bill. If we can only get this thing straightened out—”

  “I detest talking to strangers. Leave me.”

  “Bill!” Zimmerman cried. “What happened? What’s come over you?” A luminous glare blazed from the old man’s eyes.

  “I don’t know you. I don’t want to know you. Will you leave me or shall I call a guard? . . . GET OUT!!!”

  CHAPTER XXIV

  Not until the door of Graygortch’s study closed did anyone speak. Then it was a maid, entering from the hallway, who broke the electric silence.

  “One of the guards wants to see the chief,” she said. “It’s urgent.”

  Ross crossed to the South Pole Plaza and found Pudgy pacing and biting his nails.

  “There’s been a killing, chief, out on the upper trail.”

  “Who?”

  “Pollock Kell, on sentinel duty. Right through the heart. And his partner got one through the arm. I sent a couple men out to bring them in.”

  “Put the wounded man on the porch cot. I’ll get a doctor on the job,” Ross said. “Were there many of them?”

  “Only a pair of scummy looking scouts. They high-tailed it back over the mountain, the rats.”

  “Okay, Pudgy. You’ve got some footracing to do,” Ross snapped. “Tell the guards on the upper Flinfiord to blow up the foot-bridge. Send Block and Taury down to the lower ford. Have Slab issue extra ammunition all around. If any more scouting parties show up, cut loose with your machi
ne guns.”

  “I’ve gotcha, chief.”

  “And one thing more. I want to talk to the seven top-ranking guards in exactly thirty minutes. Can you get them here that soon?”

  “Yes, sir, but what if the whole East Village gang invades—”

  “They won’t chance an attack before pitch dark. That gives us an hour.”

  “Okay, chief.” Pudgy chased off into the twilight.

  By the time the two sailors reached the porch with their wounded comrade,

  Ross had succeeded in enlisting the services of Dr. Zimmerman. The silver-haired man was badly shaken over his encounter with Graygortch, but the job of treating a bullet wound helped him get a grip on himself. He went to work with a will.

  “I’ve had plenty of this to do over in East Village,” he said, working over the unconscious sailor. “Knife wounds, bullet holes, and concussions are a specialty with me. Those East Villagers are a hard lot.”

  “Just like my guards,” said Ross. They’ve all graduated from the underworld in answer to Graygortch’s call. The lucky ones got jobs here at the castle, the overflow turned away disgruntled and settled in East Village. All in all, I think there’d be a better chance of reforming the ones that have had jobs, even if they have been closer to the evil—”

  Ross saw that his reference to Graygortch was disturbing to the doctor.

  “It’s never easy to make a man over,” Ross continued.

  “It’s usually impossible,” said the doctor.

  “Unless you can change his whole outlook on life,” Ross amended, “We used to have some encouraging results with the no-accounts who came to the Transient Hotel . . . Your patient’s regaining consciousness, Doctor, Keep the good work going.”

  Ross glanced at his watch. Three of his seven corporals were already waiting for him on the parade grounds. But he still had fifteen minutes. He scurried through the South Pole Plaza and down the ringing corridors in search of Vivian. He met her coming from her room, and caught her in his arms.

  “I had to have a word with you, Mrs. Bradford!” he grinned.

  “Ross! Don’t you dare call me that,” she blazed, “unless you mean it.”