Part 16

"Just this," the reporter replied. "The theft of this rocket proves conclusively that the superior intellect, the master mind, is back on the job. Something has forced him out of hiding--out of the unknown into which he passed about three months ago. He's getting scared. He realizes that the finger of suspicion, sooner or later, will be pointed at him, and he's trying to destroy all evidence of his guilt."

"That is, of course, a possibility," I agreed. "But this theft of the rocket, now. Why, to me, it makes the whole thing seem more and more of a puzzle."

"It's the best thing that could have happened," McGinity observed. "It will prepare the public for the exposé, which is bound to come now, and put your brother in right. Public sentiment is always with the man who has been duped."

"Does this mean that we will not go on with our investigations?" I inquired.

McGinity shook his head. "My instructions from the Desk," he answered, "which I just received on the phone, are to continue with our private investigations. And my first job is to make contact as soon as possible with your brother Henry. And let me say, right here, that I think it highly important that we keep nothing back from him. We must give him a clear, succinct account of the whole matter as we know it up to this moment."

"Whew!" I exclaimed. "You don't know Henry. He would consider any move like that, on our part, as highly meddlesome, even offensive."

"But in enlisting his services in tracking down the stolen rocket--ten to one, it's been dumped in the East River, which is only a few blocks from the museum--we must acquaint him with all the particulars that have come to light. Tell what we know and suspect in the matter. He's got to know sometime--why not now?"

"Very well, then," I assented; adding, with an amused chuckle: "Looks like we've got a very busy afternoon ahead of us."

"Busy isn't the word," McGinity rejoined, as he began making some hasty notes on a bunch of copy-paper, which he always kept handy in his coat pocket. "However, this is only the beginning."

"What are you making notes for?" I asked, curiously. "Are they for your paper, or the police?"

"Neither," replied McGinity. "They are intended for broadcasting. After I'd talked to my City Editor, I got Mr. Scoville of the NRC on the phone, and he's promised to have a good description of the rocket put on the air at three o'clock this afternoon, again at six, and at nine this evening."

"Excellent idea," I said, enthusiastically. "I only wish there was something I could do. What can I do?"

"Well, Mr. Royce," replied McGinity, as he finished making his notes, and gave me a smile and roguish wink that meant much, "a reward is always useful in these matters. Money can do things that mere words can't do."

"I see what you mean," I responded slowly. I thought a moment, and then said: "If my belief's correct, the sooner we lay hands on the two men who stole the rocket the better! Yes? Well, Mr. McGinity, I'm quite willing to help out on this, in a small way, of course. I'll offer a reward of $5,000--"

"Five thousand dollars!" McGinity interrupted, gleefully. "That's a whole lot of money, Mr. Royce, and I'm sure it's going to help solve the mystery. And say--here's an idea that occurs to me. Why not phone Olinski now, at once, and get a detailed description of the rocket from him. And then ask him--also for me--if he ever visited a certain curio and bookseller's shop at the corner of Stuyvesant Place and Twelfth Street. If he doesn't answer you directly, and begins to question you--well, just hang up. Better hurry now!"

I am easily excited, and I certainly felt my heart thump as I hurried into one of the compartments of the telephone booth, to carry out the reporter's suggestions, while McGinity stepped quickly into the adjoining section, to conclude the necessary arrangements by telephone for broadcasting the $5,000 reward.

I smiled to myself as I impatiently awaited a response to my call. There I was, a staid member of society, a pillar of the church, holding dignified offices in at least a dozen of the most exclusive and conservative clubs of New York--tracking down an ingeniously concocted scheme to ruin my brother's reputation as a scientist, with the self-possession of a Hercule Poirot, or any other equally distinguished detective of fiction; lunching at a reporters' hangout, and, now, about to perform a rather dirty trick on my good friend, Olinski--altogether putty in the hands of a very audacious but ingratiating reporter.

Luckily for me, Olinski was reported "out" at his laboratory. In fact, he hadn't been in for two days; obviously his staff was worried.

"Of course, Olinski's out," muttered McGinity, when I told him; "he's got other business to attend to--pressing business." And then he proceeded to begin preparations to leave. "Now, we'd better get along to Sands Cliff--quick! Our next job's there."

The reporter's car was waiting for us, and in less than an hour we were outside our lodge-gate. The big iron gate is usually kept open during the day-time, but now it was closed. As there was no sign of the lodge-keeper, McGinity got out and opened the gate. When we rolled through, the radiator was spouting hot water and steam like a miniature Yellowstone Park geyser. The reporter had whirled me along country roads and through villages, in the drab light of a cloudy November afternoon, at a speed not at all to my liking.

Parking the car just inside the gate, we drew near the gray-walled castle. Something ominous was in the air. A deadly chill, floating in across the terrace from the dark waters of the Sound, seemed to penetrate to our very bones. Everything was weirdly silent. No sign of life. I grew very anxious and uncomfortable, although the incredible truth did not dawn upon me. Why was everything so horribly silent? Where were the usual sounds and stir of a big country estate? Why this tomb-like castle?

I was surprised to find the front door open. Within a few seconds we had entered, and were standing in the great, vaulted entrance hall, now dark and gloomy. Not a sound, nor a movement!

And then, suddenly, in the gloom and silence, we saw something that struck terror in our hearts. Jane--dear, lovable old Jane--lying, still as death, face downward, on the floor, at the base of the great staircase. Showing vividly on the stone steps, from top to bottom, were blotches of dark red. They looked like bloody footprints.

XXIV

I have often wondered, since all this occurred, how it happened that McGinity and I arrived at the castle at this very critical moment, which, afterwards, proved to be the crucial stage of our adventures in trying to detect and trace the utterly unscrupulous scoundrel who perpetrated the Martian hoax. Seconds--or minutes--later, and I might now be recording a much more terrible series of events. It was all horrible enough, God knows!

To our great relief, we found that Jane had fainted from shock. She showed signs of returning to consciousness as the reporter and I sprang to her side. She was, of course, the first person to give us the news. After we had assisted her to her feet, we partly carried her to a big easy chair, propping her up with sofa pillows. Luckily, her smelling salts were in her handbag, which I had picked up from the floor, and as I waved the vial of sal volatile to and fro under her nose, I urged her gently to tell us what had happened.

"Where's Henry?" was my first question.

"He went away--er--after lunch," Jane replied, slowly and painfully. She was still breathing with difficulty, and her words came in little gasps.

"Did he say where he was going?"

"No place--in particular. He was completely fagged out. I think he went for a drive."

"And Pat? Where is she?"

"She went out about an hour ago. I begged her not to go. She's been crying all day--about her white cockatoo."

"Did she say where she was going, Miss Royce?" McGinity asked.

"She said something about the dock. What she did say was that she felt that some fresh air, and a little exercise, would do her good."

"Did she mention any particular kind of exercise?" McGinity questioned again.

"No--she merely said--oh, yes--she spoke of rowing--that was it."

"Pat's very fond of rowing," I explained to McGinity, "and frequently goes over to the island, and potters about the old lighthouse ruins." Then I turned again to Jane: "Now, Jane, tell us--what about Mr. Zzyx?"

At the mention of the creature's name, she turned more pale and sank back in the chair, gasping. I thought she was going to faint again. Between us, McGinity and I rubbed her hands and forearms briskly. Quickly rallying, she murmured, with quivering lips: "He went mad--or something--stark crazy!"

I glanced at McGinity, and whispered: "He must have gone on a rampage--just as I feared."

"Where are all the servants, Miss Royce?" McGinity asked, as Jane recovered some semblance of her natural poise.

She smiled a little grimly. "I guess they've all been frightened away," she answered. "You see, I don't know about everything that happened, but it's my belief that all the servants have locked themselves up in the service wing. Oh, neither of you can comprehend the utter reign of terror we've just passed through. Here I was, by myself--Henry and Pat both out--the servants fleeing in alarm. Naturally, at first, I was in a state of absolute despair as to what to do."

"Let's begin at the beginning, Jane," I counselled, softly. "When did you first hear of Mr. Zzyx acting up?"

"About half an hour ago," she replied. "I was in my room, reading, when Schweizer knocked at my door. His face was as white as a sheet. He said a great commotion was going on in the State Apartment, and hadn't he better call the police. But I advised him to summon all the men-servants in the place, as I felt they could handle the situation, whatever it might be."

"Then what?"

"The butler had not been gone two minutes when I heard that dreadful thing, screeching--oh, terrible to hear!--and running up and down the hall, outside my room, and smashing the furniture. Then everything became quiet. He must have gone downstairs, for, a few minutes later, I heard the woman servants screaming--such screaming as I never heard before and never want to hear again."

"What did you do, then?"

"As soon as the screaming had subsided, I decided that something must be done, for I suddenly realized that all the men on the place had gone off on a half holiday. Besides, the telephone extension on the second floor went out of order this morning. My intention, as I slipped out of my room, was to go downstairs to the library, lock myself in, and phone the police. As none of the servants, not even my personal maid, had shown themselves, and viewing the awful wreckage that creature had made of the tables, chairs and tapestries in the hall, I was convinced that something terrible was going on."

"But how did you happen to be lying at the foot of the staircase?"

"I will tell you." She drew a long, painful breath, and then continued. "All went well until I reached the bottom of the stairs, when I heard heavy footsteps above me. I turned and looked. Mr. Zzyx was coming down towards me, chattering, and showing his teeth, rolling his head, and waving his arms convulsively, like he had a fit. I was frozen with terror to the spot. I couldn't move. I remember seeing blood on his hands and clothes, as he came nearer to me. I recall receiving a heavy blow on my arm. After that, I remember nothing."

"Thank God! you escaped without a scratch," I breathed. "But where do you suppose he's gone? The front door was open when we arrived. He may have gone out that way."

"I have no idea," Jane said. Then she wailed: "Oh, what are we to do?"

"We'll do something," I replied, and immediately went into action. I had a police whistle in my pocket, and, leaving Jane in charge of McGinity, I went quickly into the library. Opening the window that gave on to the terrace, I blew the whistle. Just then, I saw Schweizer coming from the servants' wing. I waved a hand to him, and he came hurrying on to the terrace and up to the window.

"What's become of everyone?" I inquired.

"The women have barricaded themselves in their quarters, sir," the butler replied. "That hairy fellow nearly scared the life out of 'em. Mamie Sparks went into a faint, and isn't out of it yet."

"Isn't there a strong-armed man left on the place?"

"None, sir," Schweizer replied. "The two chauffeurs went with your brother on a drive. I was afraid to tackle that hairy thing unarmed and single-handed, and ever since leaving Miss Jane locked up in her room, I've been searching everywhere for a gun."

"Did you see Mr. Zzyx leaving by the front door?"

"I saw nothing, sir, after I went back to the servants' wing to look for a weapon. If I'd found one, I meant to shoot that fellow dead. He surely made a mess of things with his tearing and smashing."

"Yes, I know," I rejoined, glancing back over my shoulder. The dining room looked as though a small whirlwind had struck it. "Better come inside, Schweizer, and help us get things straightened out."

"Just a word, sir," the butler said, coming up closer to the window, and speaking in little more than a whisper. "I think murder's been committed."

"Oh, I don't believe that," I replied, "but we'll soon see."

While alarmed and mystified at first over the red blotches on the marble staircase, it was my belief now that Mr. Zzyx must have cut himself severely during his rampage, which would account for the blood stains. But after the butler had joined us, and had told of hearing Niki screaming, during the commotion in the State Apartment, that put a different complexion on the matter. Leaving Schweizer to guard Jane, McGinity and I hastened upstairs.

It was my earnest hope that Niki was in hiding somewhere. I could not picture a person of his athletic prowess being outmatched, even by a strong-limbed creature like Mr. Zzyx. First, I tried Mr. Zzyx's door. It was locked on the inside. Then I knocked on the door which opened into the room occupied by Niki, a double room, one half of which was fitted as a bedroom. There was no response. Dead silence followed each knock--an eerie silence that caused my blood to run chill.

In a moment I had opened the door, and we were standing in his room. There were unmistakable traces of some sort of struggle. Several chairs and a reading-table were overturned, rugs disarranged, and books and magazines scattered over the floor. But no sign of Niki. I called him by name. "Niki! Niki!" my voice echoing weirdly from the high ceiling.

Then, at McGinity's suggestion, I opened the door connecting Niki's apartment with Mr. Zzyx's luxurious sleeping quarters. I gave one glance into the room, then recoiled with an exclamation of horror. The reporter leapt forward to look. The sight that met our gaze stayed with me for many days afterwards.

Niki was lying on the bed, on his back, his clothes almost torn to tatters, and the upper part of his body and head hidden under pillows and bedclothes, which bore crimson stains. I made no comment at the moment. My thoughts were going back to the performance of Verdi's "Otello" at the Metropolitan-Civic Opera House; the night I had studied Mr. Zzyx attentively as he watched, as if spellbound, the smothering to death of Desdemona by the jealous and enraged Moor. Had my surmises at that time been right? Had this violent climax of the opera taken hold of his primitive mind and obsessed him until it had quickened him to this deed of incredible violence?

Beyond any reasonable doubt, Niki had been overcome and smothered to death after a terrific fight with this hairy monster. The wreckage of the furnishings of the room bore evidence of such a struggle.

McGinity spoke first. "Awful!" he said in a faint voice.

"Poor Niki!" I said, in a tone which I scarcely recognized as my own.

"If that fiend smothered Niki to death, how do you account for all that--" McGinity checked himself as his voice choked.

"As Niki's face bears only scratches," I replied, "it's possible that Mr. Zzyx cut himself seriously while smashing window-panes and picture-glass. That will account for the bloodstains on the pillows and bedclothing."

"Then he must have killed Niki after going on a rampage through the castle," McGinity suggested.

"No, I don't think so," I replied. "I figure that he killed Niki first. He must have returned to the second floor by the back stairs, and by some strange instinct, re-enacted the killing with his cut and bleeding hands, to make sure his victim was dead."

"A cruel, murderous affair any way you look at it," said McGinity. "Better call the police at once."

"No," I demurred. "I mean to keep things quiet until Henry returns."

"In that case, then," the reporter suggested, "we'd better split up. You go and find Pat, and I'll start looking for Mr. Zzyx. It's my belief that he's escaped into the thick woods, back of the castle."

"Be careful, young man," I advised, in assenting to his proposed plan of action. "That fellow is mad--desperate, and likely to show fight."

"He'll not escape me, don't you worry," the reporter rejoined, his hand moving instinctively to his hip pocket. "I'll take no chances in tackling that bird. So now," he concluded, "whatever it is we're in for--"

He had no time to finish that sentence. The butler's voice broke in, coming from the hall. "Come, quickly, Mr. Royce! Come, at once, sir!" the butler shouted.

We left the chamber of death, taking good care to lock the door, and hurried down the hall to join Schweizer, who had only come to the head of the stairs, so as not to let Jane out of his sight. He had surprising news to tell. The gate-keeper, who had deserted his post at the first alarm, had come running up from his hiding-place, behind the terrace wall, at the brink of the cliff, to report that he had seen Mr. Zzyx go down to the dock, and, a few minutes later, cast off in a runabout, heading for the island.

The effect of this news was terrifying. The same thought must have struck McGinity and myself at the same instant. Pat was on the island. To be caught there--alone--by--It was too terrible to contemplate.

If the effect of the news was terrifying to us both, it was also electrical, so far as McGinity was concerned. Without uttering a word, he dashed out of the castle, ran across the terrace, and disappeared down the steps to the dock.

Apprehensive of the effect of this news, as well as the killing of Niki, on Jane, who was now comfortably ensconced on a divan in the hall, with her personal maid in attendance, I gave Schweizer a quick, whispered account of what we had found, and enjoined him to secrecy.

"Then there was murder, sir?" he said, in a low voice. "Niki murdered! Murder, says you, murder!" His mind couldn't seem to grasp it. "Lord help us!" he added. "I hope that reporter person gets that hairy, murdering thing, and gets it good!"

Increasingly disturbed and anxious about Pat's fate, I left the butler, signaling to him as I went outside, to stay back and look after Jane. Emerging on the terrace, another surprising sight met my gaze, giving a startling and dramatic turn to the tragic proceedings of the afternoon.

The shanty, which stood on the island, near the lighthouse ruins, was on fire. The bitterly cold, north-east wind was already whipping the flames and sending them upward in long, red tongues, which seemed to lick the lowering November sky. Cold and biting as the wind was, I was not sure that the quiver which shook me from head to foot was more from cold than from the dread anticipation of what was at hand.

Shaking and shivering, I somehow managed to get to the dock. McGinity had already cast off, and, as I breathed a prayer for the safety of Pat, I watched him struggling against the wind and incoming tide in a big, unwieldy dory, the only boat available at the dock. A flat-bottomed boat with high flaring sides, largely used on the New England coast, and by American fishing vessels, and christened "The Tub" by our servants, who used it for fishing excursions.

Mr. Zzyx must have reached the island with incredible speed. The runabout was tied up at the tiny dock, on the far side of which Pat's row-boat rocked with the tide. The flames from the burning shanty were mounting still higher, their reflection turning the expanse of surrounding water into turbulent pools of fiery red. Still, no movement was noticed on the island that would indicate the presence there, either of Pat, or of the maddened creature, Mr. Zzyx. I was beginning to be more alarmed than ever, when suddenly things began to take shape.

First, I saw McGinity beach his boat at the far end of the island, where there was a small, pebbly beach. Then came a flutter of something white--Pat's scarf, or handkerchief--at the pinnacle of the ruins.

At that moment the flames died down, and myriads of sparks flew upward as the walls of the shanty collapsed. Visibility became obscure on account of the smoke. Presently I saw McGinity running up the steps, cut in the rocks, to the door of the lighthouse, the lower part of which was practically intact. I saw him enter the doorway. Then everything became indistinct in a cloud of smoke, and out of that obscurity, I saw a black figure come stealthily around the ruins, moving from the ledge of rock on the side next to the Sound, as though it had been in hiding. As it crept into the doorway, and disappeared into the dark interior of the ruins, I cried, "Oh, God!" It was Mr. Zzyx. Pat and McGinity were trapped in the lighthouse.

Standing there alone on the dock, in the biting cold and gathering gloom, and helpless to assist Pat and McGinity in their perilous position, I passed into a state of anxiety bordering on frenzy. It was only my abounding faith in the courage and resourcefulness of the reporter in meeting the situation that kept me sane. Also, I felt sure then, as I do still, that Mr. Zzyx did not go to the island in pursuit of Pat. By no possible means could he have known that she was there. Mad with fury, and out to wreck and kill, he was winding up his abnormal excitation with all the mischief he could do on the island.

It is natural to assume that when he rushed out of the castle and reached the dock, he saw in the runabout a means to further satisfy his madness for excitement; or the boat may have suggested a means of escape. As I learned afterwards, he had gone with Niki for a spin in the runabout, directly after lunch. The engine may still have been warm, for he seemed to have had no difficulty in starting it himself, and he had long ago become proficient in casting off and tying up. The fact remains that he got to the island.

Of course, from the dock, I could not see what was transpiring inside the lighthouse. But I know now what happened. As Pat told her story afterwards, she had spent about an hour on the island when she decided to row back to the mainland. The exercise of rowing, the cold, bracing wind, and quiet moments spent in wandering about the ruins, had refreshed her wonderfully. She was walking down the rocky slope to the island dock, when she saw the runabout approaching. Naturally, she suspected nothing out of the way.

"At first, I thought," she said, after it was all over, "that it must be either one of our servants, or--improbable as it seemed--Mr. McGinity. The runabout was halfway across before I recognized Mr. Zzyx.