The Elliott O’Donnell Supernatural Megapack

by Elliott O'Donnell

It is a terrible thing to be lonely. Lonely men do all sorts of dreadful things—things they would certainly never dream of doing if they had companionship. And Shiel was doing a dreadful thing now. Every moment he was falling more and more desperately in love, despite the fact that he had no money, and worse still—no prospects of ever making any. And loneliness was in the main responsible for it.

  Had he not been so lonely—had he not spent days and days, alone in lodgings, with no one to talk to—no one to care whether he were ill or dying; had this not been his experience—the experience he was even then undergoing, reason would have outweighed folly, and even though he might have realized that in Gladys Martin he had found his ideal of beauty—of womanliness, he would have been content only to admire.

  As it was, he was in that very dangerous mood when the heart yearns for sympathy; when a plain woman’s sympathy means much—and a pretty woman’s more than much. It is no exaggeration to say that Shiel would have lain down and died for Gladys ten times over. For her sake—if only to see her smile, no mere physical pain would have been too excruciating for him to bear. And when she put the finishing touches to the bandages, and quite by chance, of course, their eyes met, he looked at her as if he never meant to leave off looking at her, as if he never meant to do anything else but look at her for all eternity.

  Whether she understood as much or not, is impossible to say. Shiel asked himself the question over and over again before the day was out, and in his sleep, and during the next day, and for many days afterwards. Could she tell how much he admired her? How much he worshipped her? All that he was prepared to do for her sweet sake? All this he asked himself repeatedly, and went on thinking of her when he knew he ought never to have thought of her at all.

  “I’m sure your hands are more comfortable now. Won’t you go into the garden and see how the work is progressing?” she said. “Or if you are afraid Father will want you to dig again, perhaps you would like to go into his study and read the papers.”

  “I should like to stay here and listen to you singing,” he said. “Mayn’t I do that?”

  “You might,” she said, “but I have to go out.”

  “Then I’ll stay here till you return,” he said, “I’ve never been in such a delightful room.”

  “What do you think of Shiel Davenport?” Gladys remarked to her aunt a few minutes later. “I don’t think I’ve ever met such an extraordinary young man. He does nothing but stare at me, and when I ask him to do one thing he suggests doing another. He’s the most difficult person to manage. In fact, I can’t manage him at all.”

  “Never mind about managing him, my dear,” Miss Templeton replied, “so long as you don’t let him manage you. Young men who do nothing but stare are not merely difficult—they are dangerous.”

  CHAPTER XII

  THE GREAT CHALLENGE

  When John Martin came into tea that afternoon, he gave Gladys a shock. Despite the fact that he had been in the sun all day and was much tanned in consequence he had never looked—so Gladys thought—so old and haggard.

  “You dear old Daddie!” she said, hastening to pour him out some tea, “you shouldn’t work so hard—this silly digging has quite knocked you up! Haven’t you finished?”

  “Yes, I’ve finished!” John Martin said, catching his breath. “I’ve found water!”

  “Nonsense!”

  “It’s true all the same. We struck it at exactly the distance he said—twenty feet.”

  “Then of course he knew.”

  “How? How the deuce could he have known?”

  “I can’t say,” Gladys replied. “All I know is, that he’s not straight, and that there’s some underhand trickery going on. But do have your tea now, and dismiss it from your mind. Anyhow, he can do you no harm.”

  “Here’s a letter for you, John,” Mrs. Templeton exclaimed, entering the room at that moment.

  John Martin took it from her, and tore open the envelope curiously. It was a handwriting he did not know, and did not like—its characteristics were sinister.

  “I knew it!” he cried; “I knew the fellow was a scoundrel. What the deuce do you think he has the impertinence to do now?”

  “He!” Gladys said, looking anxiously at her father. “Whoever do you mean?”

  “Why, that confounded young bounder who came here last night—Leon Hamar he signs himself. In this letter he declares that he can perform any of our tricks, and will accept the wager I offered for their solution some little time ago. He also says that unless I consent to see him, and to listen courteously to what he has to say, he will publicly announce his intention of taking up the wager, at our Hall, in Kingsway, to-night.”

  “Do you think there is any possibility of his having discovered the secrets of your tricks?” Gladys asked. “Could he have bribed any one to tell him?”

  “I don’t think so,” John Martin said. “The only people who have any clue as to how they are done are my two attendants—both as you know natives of Cashmere, and men who, I feel pretty certain, could not be ‘got at.’”

  “In that case,” Gladys remarked, “I fail to see what there is to worry about. Your course is perfectly clear—take no notice of it.”

  John Martin was silent—dazed. He did not know what to think or do! There was something painfully ominous to him in the discovery of the money and the water—something that accentuated the impression Hamar’s sinister appearance had made on him. The man did not look ordinary—his manner, gestures, walk and expression were decidedly abnormal—in fact they put him in mind of the superphysical. The superphysical! Might not that account for his knowledge? Bah! There was no such thing as the superphysical. The man was extraordinary—but, after all, only a man—his knowledge only that of a man. And it must be as the shrewd Gladys conjectured—he had put the money in the tree himself and had learned of the presence of water through some subtle artifice—perhaps only guessed at it. He would defy him—let him do what he would!

  This was John Martin’s decision as he finished tea. An hour later he had changed his mind, and was speaking to Hamar on the telephone, expressing his willingness to grant him a brief interview if he came at once.

  In rather less than an hour a motor drew up at the Martins’ door and Hamar stepped out of it.

  “Glad to find you in a more tractable mood, Mr. Martin,” he exclaimed on being ushered into the latter’s presence. “I reckoned you would sing to a different tune when you found that water. Would you like me to give you a few more samples of my skill, before we proceed to business?”

  “Name your business at once,” John Martin replied gruffly; “I haven’t many minutes to spare.”

  “No!” Hamar said, “that’s a pity; because part of what I have at the back of my brain may take more than a few minutes arranging. The situation in a nutshell is this. You have a pretty daughter, Mr. Martin?”

  “How dare you, sir?” John Martin broke in, clenching his fist.

  “Gently, gently, Mr. Martin!” Hamar observed, backing towards the door. “Gently—you promised to give me a courteous hearing. I meant no offence. I say I admire your daughter immensely—she takes the shine out of our American girls.”

  “The deuce she does!” John Martin foamed.

  “She does, you bet!” Hamar went on. “And I see no reason if she likes me, why we couldn’t get engaged. I would do the thing handsomely as far as money goes. What do you say?”

  “I say that unless you’re very careful I shall break my promise and kick you.”

  “I would pay you a big lump sum to take me into partnership,” Hamar went on complacently, “and I would introduce a number of new tricks that would stagger creation. I shouldn’t be in any hurry to marry—the length of the engagement would be for you to decide.”

  “Then it would be ad infinitum,” John Martin said grimly, “f
or you’ll never get my consent to a marriage.”

  “Never is a long day—and even a John Martin may change. You want new blood and new capital in your Firm—you would have both in me. I assure you your show would boom as it has never boomed before!”

  “And the only condition on which you offer me all this is my daughter?”

  “You have said it—that is the one and only condition. Your daughter—my brains, my dollars.”

  “I have decided!” John Martin said.

  “Good!” Hamar exclaimed; “I guessed you would! There’s nothing like the almighty dollar, is there?”

  “Yes!” John Martin rejoined; “the almighty fist—and that’s what you’ll get if you don’t clear out of this house instantly. And if you ever come skulking round here again, or write me any more letters I’ll set my. solicitor on to you.”

  “Then it’s war—war to the knife!” Hamar sneered. “How melodramatic! But it won’t last long. I shall yet be your partner—and I shall yet have Miss Gladys! Au revoir—I won’t say good-bye!” and with a mock bow he hurriedly took his departure.

  That night Messrs. Martin and Davenport’s entertainment had progressed as usual for about half an hour when it suddenly came to a full stop. A man in the lowest tier of boxes had risen and was addressing the audience in a loud voice: “Ladies and gentlemen!”

  In an instant all heads swung round and there were stentorian shouts of “Silence!”

  But Curtis—for it was he—was not easily daunted. “Do you call this fair play!” he demanded; “I am here to-night to make a sporting offer, and one which will afford you vast entertainment.”

  Cries of “Shut up!” “Silence!” “He’s drunk!” “Turn him out!” merging into one loud roar forced him to pause. Several uniformed officials now invaded the box, but Hamar—who, as well as Kelson, was with Curtis—fixing them with his big dark eyes that gleamed eerily in the half-lowered lights of the house—for the stage only at that moment was fully illuminated—held them in check, and they hung back not knowing what to do. This move of Hamar’s took with a large section of the audience—some of whom were possessed with sporting instincts, whilst others were merely curious—and the somewhat premature cries of “Turn him out!” etc., were soon lost in vociferous shouts of: “Let them alone!” “Let them speak!” “Let us hear what they have to say.” It was in the midst of this hubbub that John Martin in a great state of nervous agitation came to the front of the stage and inquired the cause of the commotion. The shouting still continued, and Gladys, who had come to the performance anticipating something of the sort, called to her father, from the wings, bidding him give Curtis permission to speak.

  “You will lose all sympathy if you don’t, Father,” she added; “and besides you have nothing to fear. It’s sheer bravado and impudence on their part.”

  Thus advised, for Gladys was a level-headed girl, John Martin gave in; and the audience showed their approval by a vigorous round of clapping.

  “I wish I were spokesman,” Kelson sighed, his eyes glistening at the sight of so many pretty upturned faces. “Go on, old man!” he added, giving Curtis a nudge. “Fire away, and show them you know a bit about elocution, for the credit of the Firm.”

  Curtis needed no encouragement. What little bashfulness he had once possessed he had certainly left behind in San Francisco, for he leaned over the front of the box and smiled familiarly at the audience.

  “I am Edward Curtis,” he said, “one of the directors of the Modern Sorcery Company Ltd. Messrs. Martin and Davenport have so often boasted that no one outside their firm can perform their tricks that I have come here to-night resolved to disillusion them. I not only accept their offer of ten thousand pounds for the solution of their tricks, but I agree to pay them double that amount—cash down—if I do not do everything they do—from ‘The Brass Coffin’ to their world-famed ‘Pumpkin Puzzle.’ With Messrs. Martin and Davenport’s permission I will explain one and all of their tricks to you to-night, and the only thing I ask of you, ladies and gentlemen, is to see that I get fair play.”

  A spontaneous outburst of clapping followed this speech, and as soon as it had ceased one of the audience who had risen and was waiting to speak, said: “I trust Messrs. Martin and Davenport will accept this challenge, and allow the Modern Sorcery Company the opportunity here, in this hall to-night, of displaying their skill—or their ignorance, as the case may be. If Messrs. Martin and Davenport’s tricks cannot be performed by any outsider—the Firm in accepting this challenge will merely be twenty thousand pounds the richer—and if—as is hardly likely, Messrs. Martin and Davenport should be outwitted, I am sure they themselves will be amongst the first to congratulate their successful rivals. I, for one, am quite ready to act as referee.”

  “I too!” shouted a dozen other voices. “Be a sport and accept his bet!”

  “Ladies and gentlemen,” John Martin replied with dignity, “you have given me no alternative; I accept the challenge. Perhaps those who have so kindly volunteered to act as referees will see that order is maintained whilst I go on with my performance, at the conclusion of which Mr. Curtis—I think that is the name of my rival—will be quite at liberty to try his exposition of my tricks.”

  The performance then proceeded, and when it was over, Curtis, Hamar and Kelson, accompanied by six of those of the audience who had volunteered to act as referees, stepped on to the stage. Seats were provided for the referees—three on the one side of the stage and three on the other; and having seen that everything was fair and square John Martin retired to the O.P. wing, behind which Gladys was concealed.

  A brief description of “The Brass Coffin” trick, which was the first Messrs. Hamar, Curtis and Kelson proceeded to explain, will, perhaps, suffice.

  A massively constructed brass-bound coffin is handed round to the audience, who carefully examine it, and being unable to discover anything amiss, pronounce themselves satisfied that it is genuine.

  The operator then summons an assistant, jokingly refers to him as “the corpse”—puts him into a sack, made to represent a winding-sheet, securely binds the sack with a piece of cord, and asks one of the audience to seal it. The sack and its contents are then placed in the coffin which is locked and corded. The operator then throws a sheet over the coffin, lets it remain there for a few seconds, and on removing it and opening the lid, the coffin, is found to be empty. A shout from the front of the House makes every one turn round, when, to their amazement, “the corpse” is seen standing up at the back of “the Pit,” holding the sack with the rope and seal—intact—in his hand. Such was the marvellous feat which had been accomplished in Martin and Davenport’s Hall night in and night out for years, the solution of which no one as yet had been able to discover. One can imagine, in these circumstances, the tremendous excitement of the audience at the prospect of seeing this notorious puzzle tackled—and tackled by a member of a Firm which was already reputed to be doing all kinds of weird and extraordinary things. But, whereas it was quite obvious that John Martin was greatly perturbed (his eyebrows were working nervously, and his lips and fingers twitching), Curtis, on the other hand, was as cool as possible—he literally did not turn a hair.

  “Now, gentlemen,” he said, turning to the referees, “keep your eyes well skinned and observe everything I do. Ladies and gentlemen,” he went on, raising his voice, “I am now about to show you how the coffin trick is done. Observe me—I’m ‘the corpse’—Mr. Kelson, here, is the operator—” and Matt Kelson, rather to Hamar’s annoyance advanced, down the stage to take part in the proceedings.

  “Watch me get into the sack!” He stepped into it as he spoke. “Look at what I have in my hand,” he went on, holding up his right hand in full view of the audience. “I have a plug of wood covered with the same material as this sack. As soon as I stoop down and the sack is pulled over me I shall thrust this plug into the mouth of
it and Mr. Kelson will bind the sack round it. I shall then be put into the coffin. You think you know this coffin but you don’t. See!”—and stepping out of the sack he tapped the head of the coffin, which was very broad and deep. “Come closer!” and he beckoned to the referees, whose numbers were now augmented by three newspaper reporters—representatives of the Daily Snapper, the Planet and the Hooter respectively. “Here is a secret panel worked by a spring. I will press, and you will press too.”

  And amidst a breathless silence—the nine members of the audience on the stage following every movement—Curtis put his hand inside the head of the coffin and touched a very slight elevation in the wood. In an instant, by a wonderfully neat piece of mechanism, a panel slid back, leaving just sufficient room for a man of moderate dimensions to squeeze through.

  Everyone now looked at John Martin—he was leaning back in his chair, breathing hard, his eyes starting out of his head, his cheeks white. Hamar saw him and grinned, grinned malevolently, but the smile died out of his face when he glanced at Gladys—the scorn in the girl’s eyes made his blood boil.

  “All right, Miss Martin,” he muttered between his teeth; “you adopt that attitude now, but you will adopt a very different one later on! I’ll win you body and soul, or my name is not what it is.”

  He was interrupted in this amiable reflection by Curtis. “I’m too stout to play the rôle of the corpse, and so is Matt,” Curtis said to him; “you must undertake that part. Now!” he went on, “take this plug and get into the sack,” and he whispered a few instructions in his ear. Then he tied the top of the sack—in reality tying it round the plug Hamar was holding—and one of the audience sealed the knot. Curtis and Kelson then lifted Hamar into the coffin, shut the lid and corded it. Then Curtis, turning to the audience, said:

  “What is now happening inside the coffin is this—‘the corpse’ pulls the plug out of the mouth of the sack from the inside. The cord thus becomes loose and ‘the corpse’ is able to open the sack. He at once touches the spring I pointed out to you in the head of the coffin, and the panel slides back—So!”