The Black Mask Magazine (Vol. 1, No. 5 - August 1920), page 19
part #5 of The Black Mask Magazine Series
"Open this door!" he called — "Open it or we'll break it down."
There was silence — then a sound of footsteps, and the door was flung open. The gardener stood just inside the room. He had discarded his overalls and looked very much the gentleman in a dark, well fitting suit. Though he was ghastly pale, there was a triumphant gleam in his dark eyes and an air of success in his bearing.
The room was in absolute disorder. Papers were thrown everywhere, bottles lay at random on glass topped tables. Paper baskets were overthrown. Everything indicated a hurried but thorough search.
One instant Willoughby glared at his ransacked laboratory, then into the glowing eyes of the boy whom he seemed to recognize for the first time, then he flung himself at the younger man with an almost animal like snarl — "Damn you!"
Allering stepped aside. At the same moment, Dwyer laid a heavy hand on his shoulder.
"Well," he smiled, but the menace in his cool tones made Lannen shiver, — "I presume you are the gardener Allering. No wonder you didn't care to give your testimony to us. We came out here to look into the matter of a heart failure; we hardly expected to be so fortunate as to lay our hands on Charlie Moore — No. 9672."
The boy flung back his head and looked bravely into the cool, hard face of the inspector.
"No. 9672?" gasped Stevens.
"Sure, the escaped con. sent up two years ago for manslaughter. Escaped six weeks ago. They say a society woman helped him bust out, but I never dreamed it was Mrs. Willoughby!"
"She's my sister!" said the boy proudly.
"Sure." Dwyer bit off the end of a cigar and stuck it in his mouth, but he didn't light it.
He looked steadily at the young man, then toward Willoughby.
The latter's eyes were bloodshot; he seemed to be controlling himself with difficulty.
"What did you know about this?" Dwyer asked him.
"Nothing," snapped the doctor.
"You didn't recognize him?"
"No!"
Young Moore laughed unpleasantly.
"That's a lie," he said. "He knew me the moment Louise brought me into this house, she knew he did, and so did I — but he didn't dare admit it. If he had he would have notified you in a minute. He wanted me out of the way, but he was afraid; so he chose the cowardly way. He made everyone think I was her lover and poisoned them against her, then—"
"Stop!" It was Willoughby who exclaimed.
The boy shrugged his shoulders.
"You've made some strange statements, young man." said Dwyer quietly "and I must say for a man under arrest — an escaped convict — you're damned cool."
A frank smile curled the other's lips.
"I'm not going back, Inspector," he said, "and don't you think it for one minute."
"Is that so?"
"You bet your life it is. I spent two years in that hell-hole. I was clever enough to make my escape, you can rest assured I'll be clever enough to keep out of it. What do you think I came here for?"
"That's what I'm wondering?" said Dwyer drily. "You might have known that sooner or later we would have run you down; that we would be certain to come to your sister's for you."
"Not so certain. If that poor devil hadn't died out there, I'd still be safe here. I've had six weeks start of you, Inspector, that was all I needed. Six weeks too much for you, Andrew, but you see you didn't get me after all."
Dwyer flung his cigar from him impatiently, and stepped over the threshold into the disordered laboratory. He closed the door behind him with a snap. Willoughby suddenly swayed, and dropped into the nearest chair.
"Now, Moore," said the inspector, "No funny business, get me? You're going back with me, and you're going back to stay. You were sent up on a poison charge, young man. There's a dead man out there on those grounds, — what did you have to do with his death?"
The boy shrugged his shoulders again, then his eyes clouded, a note of pathos crept into his voice.
"Everything," he said quietly. "I suppose if it weren't for me the poor devil would be alive at this minute."
Willoughby gave an inarticulate cry.
Dwyer stared at the ex-gardener, striving to digest his astounding words.
"Let me get you right," he said slowly. "Are you confessing that you killed that bum out there?"
"No," said young Moore — "but I'm saying that my brother-in-law, Andrew Willoughby, did."
VIII
There was a dead silence. Then Willoughby laughed. He laughed until he shook, then he staggered to his feet and waved a long bony finger at his accuser.
"You tried to implicate me before, you whelp! You tried to shift John Gordon's murder on my shoulders! By God! Don't you try it again! I never saw that man out there before — I—"
"Just a minute." The dignity, the note of authority in the boy's voice seemed to impress even Dwyer, hardened officer of the law that he was. "Two years ago, when I came out of college, I came here to study chemistry with Dr. Willoughby, my brother-in-law. I was interested in science. He had gone farther into some phases of it than any other teacher I could secure. I became his assistant in numerous tests. John Gordon was another assistant."
"Why rake all that up?" snapped Dwyer impatiently. "All that detail came out at the trial."
"Because you are going to know the truth. Because I am going to prove my statements. I don't know if Andrew Willoughby is insane or not, but I do know that in the interest of science he will stop at nothing, not even murder! Please," he continued, raising a silencing hand as they would have interrupted him. "He was making some tests of a new, very strange and interesting Eastern poison — it left no trace of any kind; a touch of it on a mucous membrane would produce instant death. This was not enough for Dr. Willoughby; he was searching for a poison whose mere contact would be deadly. At last he hit upon one. A harmless enough liquid until combined with metal and moisture—"
Lannen gave an exclamation of surprise.
Willoughby had seated himself, and now sat staring at the speaker with beaded, fascinated eyes. He wet his lips with the tip of his tongue but otherwise made no movement.
"The trouble with this poison," continued Moore, "was that the victim died in convulsions — the death being of several moments' duration. Consequently Willoughby was still dissatisfied. I don't know what his desire was in making of poisoning a fine art, I don't think that at that time murder was his object. He sacrificed numerous animals in his experiments, even Louise's pet Airedale and a Persian cat belonging to the housekeeper were destroyed. The brutality of their death, the horrible agony they suffered was getting on my nerves. I wanted to get away. He did not let John Gordon into the secret of these poisons, so Gordon was in total ignorance of Willoughby's ambition.
"I began to fear my brother-in-law. There was an insane glitter in his eyes when at work. It dawned upon me that he would not endure any obstacle being placed in his way, and that because of my knowledge of his tests, he hated me, although he needed me. Then John Gordon was found dead. His attitude, the tortured expression on his face proved conclusively he had been poisoned, though if Willoughby had not so painstakingly explained the nature of that poison no one would have detected it in his system. Whether my brother-in-law deliberately killed him as a test — or it was an accident, I am not prepared to state, — but I had nothing to do with it. The metal cup which contained the coffee which Gordon drank, I never saw before — so help me God! Willoughby swore in court to my carelessnes — that I had deliberately left that cup which had been used on a tea table — and young Gordon had poured coffee into it and drank it! It was a lie; Dr. Willoughby himself did it! I had nothing to support my statement then. I was working for a reputable famous scientist. What was my word against his? With every proof in the world against me? But I made up my mind that the instant those prison doors closed behind me, and I was again a free man. I would not only prove my innocence — but Andrew Willoughby's guilt, and I have done so."
He paused abruptly.
"I escaped. The papers gave the' details. I took a chance in coming i here, — but as Louise's gardener I was safe from you if Willoughby did not recognize me. For a long time he never noticed me. One servant was the same as another to him. His wife always engaged them. Then he noted our friendship, Louise's and mine, and he became jealous. Too late we recognized our mistake, for the instant he took a good look at me, he knew who I was.
"As I said, he was cowardly. He knew I had something more than my liberty at stake. He feared me. He was afraid of what I knew of him. He instantly sensed that my presence in his household meant I was spying upon him. He could not send me away. He determined to do away with me. Cleverly he planted the idea in the mind of all his wife's friends that she was unfaithful to him, that I was, her lover; he did this so that if he were discovered as my murderer he would be exonerated for protecting his honor; then he began to study my habits. Knowing what he intended, I ate all my meals at a nearby road-house. Everything suspicious I handled with gloves — but in spite of all my precautions, if that poor devil had not appeared last night, this morning I would be a dead man."
An enigmatical smile curled up the corners of Willoughby's eyes. He shifted his position. He glanced in an almost disinterested fashion at the papers tossed about the room.
"He had contrived my murder in the cleverest, most diabolical fashion conceived of by man," continued Moore. "Knowing that to water the plants I must attach the hose every morning, he carefully saw to it that it was unattached — then using this poison which he had perfected, he placed it on the faucet — so that the instant it came into contact with moisture and metal it became deadly; so deadly that the touch of it on my bare hand was enough to kill me."
"Very pretty," said Dwyer with something like a snort — "but it strikes me like some sort of a fairy tale. You can't get away with that stuff, young man."
Moore smiled. "I saw him place the poison on the hydrant faucet, so did his wife. I saw the tramp touch it and fall over dead, so did she. I have found the formula — the thing I've been hunting for — and his diary—"
Dwyer sniffed again, though he took the book Moore extended toward him and turned over its pages curiously.
"We're always getting dope on mysterious poisons that leave no trace," he said—"But it's going a little too far to believe in the existence of one that kills by the mere touch of flesh which has no abrasion or scratch of any kind."
Willoughby suddenly stiffened. His nostrils quivered.
"You don't doubt its existence?" he exclaimed in a high-pitched excited voice.
"I do."
"You don't believe what he says is true?"
"I do not."
"Well, it is true, every word of it," the professional pride in the doctor's voice showed he had clearly forgotten that such a statement meant an admission of murder.
"Are you confessing that you attempted your brother-in-law's life, and killed that hobo?" exclaimed Dwyer, whirling on him.
"I am making a statement that I have discovered the greatest existing poison — that I have proven its potency! You doubt my word. Watch—"
Before any of the startled spectators could stop him, he had reached for the little vial of amber-colored liquid Lannen so vividly recalled as spilling the night before, and pouring a little of it in a metal measuring-cup half filled with water, he rubbed his hand over the surface of the cup. For a second he smiled whimsically at the men who stared in bewilderment at him — then he suddenly stiffened, his muscles gave a convulsive movement, and he rolled off the chair onto the floor.
"Dead!" exclaimed the other physician, bending over him. "Almost instantaneous!"
"Well I'm damned!" ejaculated Dwyer.
"My sister!" gasped young Moore. There was a horrified expression in his dark eyes. "I must go to her — you don't want me, do you?"
"No — bat don't try to get away," replied Dwyer grimly, still staring in blank astonishment at the stark figure of their late host.
"You'll find everything in his diary," said the boy in the doorway, "his vainglory prompted him to write it up."
"It prompted his death," said Lannen, turning away heart-sick at the thought.
Then the knowledge that Louise Willoughby was free sent him down into the drawing-room, where she sat, hands clasped in those of her brother.
Brothers-of-the-Coast
by J. C. Kofoed
I
I dropped over the side of the Mary Rose when she steamed out of Port Royal, and swam back to the wharf. It was a foolish thing to do, for the harbor was full of ground sharks, but the heat and rather too much rum-and-sugar had made me reckless. Probably, too, I had imbibed some of the devil-may-care spirit of this ancient nesting place of the buccaneers.
When I reached the dock I was dizzy and blown from my exertions. It was terribly hot. Something seemed dragging at the nape of my neck, and the winking lights in Port Royal harbor looked like the blazing eyes of mammoth animals. I sat down on a cask, and watched the red lantern on the Mary Rose's stack disappear into the night. I couldn't quite recall why I had come back to Port Royal. It was because of something someone had told me — damn that rum! My head was like an empty barrel. I could not remember a thing.
After a bit I lit my pipe, having tobacco and matches safe in a waterproof bag, as all sailormen should. Gradually the fog in my brain started to shred out. I began to remember.
First it was Mary Logan. She had promised to marry me back in New Bedford. She had laid her little hands in my great, horny ones, and pressed her lips against my cheeks, murmuring words of endearment, and promising to wed me in a fortnight. All the time she knew she was lying, for her plans had been laid to run away with Benjy Harrison that very night. Something snapped inside of me then; the world went black before my eyes… Later I shipped on the Mary Rose, bound for Port Royal.
But it wasn't Mary's treachery that had made me leave the old tramp. What was it? I pressed my fists against my aching temples, and tried to think.
Ah, I had it!
It was on account of what Hong Fat showed me — that and the sugared rum, I guess. The filthy, slit-eyed Chinaman was a magician in his own country, he said, and I'll give it to him that he was clever. For two dollars he went through his whole bag of tricks, but it didn't satisfy me. I'm a deep water sailor, and I come from a long line of blue-nosed, psalm-singing Puritans, but there's a streak of the mystic in me. I always wanted to look behind the veil, and Hong Fat said he could lift it for me.
So I gave him five dollars to do it. He brought out a little bronze bowl from under his robe, and made some passes over it with his "lean, long-nailed fingers. A thick, oily smoke curled up from it and almost hid his emaciated yellow face and beady eyes.
Then he asked me in his crooked Shantung dialect if I could understand Chinese. I told him yes, rather sourly, for the smoke was making me drowsy.
"Sailor man," he said in his sing-song way. "You are a brave one — a brave man, but you have done enough wrong to offend the gods; wrongs that you must atone for."
"Wrongs?" I said. "I've led a pretty rough life, but a square one, and I can't call to mind anyone in particular that I've wronged. I'd like to kill Benjy Harrison, but I haven't done it, so you can't call that a wrong. As for Mary Logan—
"No, I can't call any to mind," I said.
What of the smoke there was a tightening around my throat, and my arms and legs had lost all feeling. "Hurry up — tell me — what was it — when—?"
"Not in this life." droned Hong Fat. "Long, long ago—"
The smoke flattened out like a gray screen. There were pictures on it, but so jumbled and twisted at first that I could not make head or tail of them. I seemed to see Mary's face peep out, but I couldn't be sure. Then the pictures began to take shape. Familiar things flashed up. I seemed to be going back into the past — centuries ago—
Suddenly there sprang into view the old city of Panama, with its houses of aromatic rosewood and the tower of the great Cathedral of St. Anastasius. I could see the slave markets, where black men were being sold, while their buyers sat at tables, sipping Peruvian wine. Beyond the city rolled the green savannahs, and on one side an arm of the sea crept inland. It was the Panama of the old days, before Sir Henry Morgan sacked it.
I don't know why I recognized it, for the ancient city was gone long before I was born. There is left only a tangle of weeds and sun-cracked limestone. The slave-market is a swamp; the haven a stretch of surf-beaten mud, inhabited by pelicans quarreling over the stinking remains of fish. But, in spite of that, I saw old Panama there in the smoke, and felt as a man does when he comes upon a forgotten nook. Except for this: At sight of all that beauty a crawling horror whelmed up in my throat, and I would have screamed and beat the air, but it was as though only my brain was present. I had no consciousness of a physical body.
Men came into the picture. They were muscular and bronzed, with the rolling gait of sailors. They wore hats, wide of brim and running into a peak, dirty linen shirts and knickerbockers. Around their waists were sashes, bristling with knives, and they carried guns of a make that would seem strange to modern eyes. They were Morgan's buccaneers on their way to the sack of Panama — to pillage and burn and torture and rape. I recognized them: Dubosc, with his swagger and black mustachios, squat Sawkins, one-eyed Peter Harris, Ringrose, and then — God pity me! — I saw myself, running with the rest, sweat stained, ragged, but with the lust of battle flushing my cheeks. At the head of the troop was a tall man, with a face framed by lank gray curls — as cruel and evil and ruthless a face as this old world has ever seen. His clothes, of silks and satin and lace, were as weatherworn as those of his men. No need to ask myself who it was. I knew him as I had known the others — Morgan, the damned! — the man I had followed in a forgotten century across the blood-smeared waters of the Caribbean!
I knew then why Hong Fat had said my wrong was a great one. None could fight under the black flag of this arch brother-of-the-coast without loading his soul with crime.
