The Avenger 36 - Demon Island (5 page)

“Shut up.”

“Enough shouting,” admonished Morrison. On the wooden table beside him, within the glow cast by the oil lamp, was Cole’s wallet. “Your name seems vaguely familiar to me, Mr. Wilson.”

“I am in the gossip columns quite often.”

Tucker said, “Are you in the movies? I don’t go to the movies much, but I don’t—”

“Holy mackerel!” exclaimed Stark suddenly. “Cole Wilson. I used to hear stories about him while I was in stir. He’s a cop.”

“On the contrary,” said Cole.

“Yeah,” continued Stark, “he works with that guy they call the Avenger. Cole Wilson of Justice, Incorporated. That’s who you nabbed, Tucker.”

“How did I know that,” said Tucker. “And what the hell is Justice, Incorporated? I don’t read the papers much.”

“A bunch of special cops, racketbusters,” said Stark. He leaned over Cole. “How’d you get wind of what we were up to?”

Grinning, Cole said, “I assure you I don’t know, even at this moment, what you are up to. I’m on Demon Island to watch some friends of mine make a movie.” He took the three of them in with a glance. “Unless you’ve kidnapped Miss Fiddler, I have no notion of why you’re here.”

Morrison sucked in his breath and let it out. “What are you talking about? Kidnapped who?”

“Fanny Fiddler, rising young cinemactress. I fell into your rabbit snare while trying to find her.”

“This island,” muttered Tucker. “There’s always something strange going on.”

“What makes you think this girl has been kidnapped?” Morrison asked.

“It seems a logical conclusion,” replied Cole. “Although it’s equally possible she climbed out her bedroom window at midnight clad in nothing but her nightclothes.” He frowned, scanning the room. “If you really don’t have her, I wonder what happened to her.”

“We’re not interested in dames,” said Stark. “Not for kidnapping anyhow.”

“If we’d been able to find what we came here for,” said Morrison, “our paths wouldn’t have crossed at all, Mr. Wilson.”

“Then you chaps don’t live here all year round?”

“These premises were built, and cleverly concealed, over fifteen years ago, by a group of gentlemen engaged in what was then popularly known as rumrunning,” explained the fat man. “To the best of our knowledge, we are the only living souls who are aware of their existence.”

“Sounds very exciting,” said Cole. “If I promise not to tell anyone you’re lurking here, can I go? I really am on a vacation.”

“When our objective is obtained,” said Morrison, “we will release you, Mr. Wilson. Until then you must remain here.”

“In that case, allow me to wish you godspeed,” said Cole.

Stark shook his head. “I don’t see any sense in letting him go when we’re finished here,” he said. “The easiest and safest thing would be to knock him off. That way he don’t talk to anybody.”

“Out of the question.”

Stark stalked to the doorway. “Oh, yeah?”

The bearded young man in the rumpled tweed suit walked determinedly across the gritty morning beach of Demon Island. An amply stuffed and visibly venerable briefcase swung from his right hand.

Following in his wake came Nellie Gray, with a pair of rimless spectacles on, and Smitty hefting a small trunk on his shoulder and a suitcase in each hand.

“You there,” said Benson, hailing the curious film crewman who’d come down to watch their motor launch land. “Would you kindly summon Mr. . . .” He fetched a note out of a cluttered inner pocket. “Mr. Terence O’Malley.”

“He’s working right now, but I can take you up there,” offered the man. “You must be the spook doctor, huh?”

“I am,” replied Benson in a slow, precise, and slightly nasal voice, “Dr. Montague Winters, the noted authority on matters occult. Your Mr. . . .” He paused to consult the note again. “Your Mr. Terence O’Malley has seen fit to hire me as a technical adviser on this epic.”

“We can use you on more than the flick, Doc. This whole island’s crawling with spooks and—”

“This young lady is my private secretary, Miss Emmy Lou Spaulding,” the Avenger continued. “The third member of our little group is Professor A.H. Smith, the renowned authority on psychic phenomena.”

“Hi ya,” said Smitty, shifting the trunk from one shoulder to the other.

“Now, if you’ll be so good as to lead us to Mr. O’Malley, I’ll commence earning my fee.”

The young director was at work in the courtyard of the mansion. Cameras, sound equipment, and lights were scattered about, wires and cables squiggled here and there across the flagstones. A man in a shaggy gorilla costume, minus the gorilla head, was sitting in a canvas chair behind the head cameraman, going through a blue-covered script.

“You don’t see him yet, Heather,” O’Malley was calling to the auburn-haired actress, who stood on the castle steps. “Hey, Hank, you’ve got to give me more fog. I want it creeping across the ground on little cat feet.”

“Do my best, Terry,” said the man on the fog machine.

“Klaus, we’re going to need a scrim on that baby spot.”

“Don’t need it.”

“Do it.”

Grumble.

“Now, Heather, you come down a step, maybe two. Pull that négligée a little tighter around you in front, we don’t want trouble in the sticks. You come down another step and then you hear it. Something breathing . . . but not something human.”

“I resent that,” said the man in the gorilla suit.

“Pipe down, Dave. You see him then, Heather. You don’t see him clear, but you see him. And you’re frightened. I don’t want some kind of Edgar Kennedy take, I don’t want even a scream. I want to look at your face and feel that you’re frightened out of your wits. Okay?”

The pretty girl smiled faintly and nodded.

“Sort of skinny, isn’t she?” whispered Nellie to Smitty.

The giant said, “Oh, I don’t know. She’s pretty cute.”

“Quiet, everybody quiet. We’re going for a take. Don’t forget, Heather, no screaming. Okay, Isaacson, you all set?”

The cameraman said, “You bet.”

“Okay. Roll ’em.”

Heather moved down the stairs, one slender hand held to her breast. Fog encircled her. She suddenly seemed to sense something. She turned slowly and looked full into Isaacson’s big camera, which was rolling silently toward her.

“Perfect!” exclaimed O’Malley. “Cut. I’ll buy that one.”

“A beaut,” agreed Isaacson.

“Get all the way into your trick suit, Dave. I want to get a couple of shots of you lurking. We’ll take five and pick up at scene forty-six.”

“I played on Broadway with Lunt and Fontanne,” remarked Dave as a makeup man helped him into the gorilla head. “Brooks Atkinson called me a bright—” The gorilla head muffled the remainder of the sentence.

O’Malley had noted the arrival of the Avenger. He hurried now around equipment and over cables. “Good to see you again, Mr.—”

“Dr. Montague Winters,” said Benson, holding out his hand.

“Oh, yeah, to be sure. Dr. Winters. We’re honored to have you working on the picture. I hope you’ll be pleased with what you see.”

“I make no artistic judgments,” said Benson in the nasal voice he was using. “I am merely a journeyman for hire . . . Any word on Cole?”

They were out of earshot of the cast and crew. O’Malley shook his head. “Still not a trace. I’ve had two men prowling the damn island off and on since I called you yesterday morning. Cole doesn’t seem to be here.”

Nellie said, “What about this girl he was searching for? Has she told you anything more?”

“No, Fanny’s kept quiet,” answered the director. “I tell you, though, I have a feeling she knows more than she’s letting on.”

“About what’s happened to Cole?”

“Maybe that, I’m not sure. She’s covering up something, though. And I have a hunch she’s afraid of something. Fanny’s a tough little dame . . . excuse me. She’s not the type to get the jitters. I’ve never seen her like this before.”

“Maybe there really are spooks on this island,” said Smitty.

O’Malley said, “I’m starting to wonder if that isn’t true.”

Tucker set the saucer containing five Ritz crackers down on the rickety table and placed the jelly glass of water next to it. “Here’s your dinner,” he told Cole.

Cole said, “Am I to be put on bread and water from now on?”

“We’re sort of running short of supplies.” Tucker began to untie the bound Cole. “So we’re having to do a little rationing of food.”

The two men were alone in the underground room. Cole rubbed gingerly at his freed hands and said, “Seems to me you chaps are experiencing considerable hard luck in your treasure hunt.”

Tucker stepped back. “What . . . makes you think we’re looking for treasure?”

“Ah, well, to the ordinary man,” said Cole as he flexed his fingers, “all the shovels and picks, the night worklights and such paraphernalia might not seem out of the ordinary.” He tapped at his temple. “To one as astute as I am, however, it all adds up to a treasure hunt. I learned a bit about the fine art of detection from my good friend Nick Carter, who—”

“You better keep quiet about it,” cautioned Tucker. “Stark wants to knock you off as it is. So don’t let on you’ve tumbled to the fact we’re hunting for Silva’s hidden dough.”

“My lips are sealed.” Cole took a sip of the tepid water. “Apparently you lads don’t know the exact location of the elusive loot.”

“Stark only knows it’s on this island somewheres. We figured to find it and get off before you movie people ever got here. Now we got to sneak around mostly at night to do our searching. It’s a pain in the neck.” He settled down on a camp stool. “And I really don’t like to be out there at night.”

“I gather one of your associates met an untimely end.”

“Yeah, poor Jepson,” said Tucker. “He fell off a cliff, got himself smashed to pieces. We buried him up in the woods.” He frowned at the damp stone walls. “I feel like I been buried myself. I don’t care for this setup much.”

“Jepson’s accident,” asked Cole. “It was definitely an accident?”

Tucker didn’t answer immediately. “Stark thinks so,” he said at last, voice lowered. “I’m not so sure. There’s something out there . . . at night . . . in the fog. I don’t know exactly what it is . . . maybe it’s a ghost. I’ve almost seen it, I think.”

“I believe I overheard allusions to a young lady.”

“That’s what I think I saw. Off in the woods among the trees. You can’t see too clear in this lousy fog . . . and this was just out of the corner of my eye. I’m pretty sure—”

“What the hell is this?” demanded Stark as he came into the room. “A tea party?”

“You said to feed him.”

“I didn’t say to tell him the story of your life.” The husky man dropped a shovel in the corner.

“No luck, huh?”

“What do you think?” Stark reached out to grab a cracker off Cole’s plate.

“Try the water,” said Cole, “it’s delightful.”

“Shut up,” said Stark. “Get him tied up again, Tucker. Then I want you to go out and look around the south tip of the island tonight. Morrison is there now.” He snorted, shaking his head. “That guy is so clumsy, they’re liable to hear him stumbling around all the way up at the house.”

“I’d be more than willing to lend a hand,” offered Cole. “I’ve always found night air invigorating and—”

“Shut up, I can’t stand a guy so full of wise cracks.”

“A definite character flaw.”

“Come on, Tucker, tie him back up.”

Tucker complied.

There was a cold silence all around him. The shovel felt twice as heavy as it had when Tucker had climbed up out of the secret exit and into the foggy forest.

A wild goose chase, he told himself. There’s no money here. It’s just a pipe dream, something Silva made up when he was completely goofy. And we’re just as bad, wasting our time.

And yet Stark seemed so certain.

Give it a few more days, he thought. You got nothing much waiting for you back in Los Angeles. And a million bucks split three ways . . .

There was something following him.

Tucker stopped and spun around.

Only curtains of mist all around him. Black trees.

Brush crackled, twigs snapped.

The girl was small and dark. She was dressed in a long, flowing white gown.

Tucker swallowed. She didn’t look like a ghost. No, she seemed very real. “Uh . . . good evening,” he said softly. “You must be with the movie gang. I’m . . . uh . . . a fisherman. Had some trouble with my boat out on the—”

She was smiling at him.

And the smile made Tucker’s stomach go cold. “What is it?”

He didn’t have to ask. He knew she meant to kill him. Her eyes flashed that, her smile made it certain. That horrible smile.

Tucker remembered that he had the shovel. “Watch out, lady! Stay away from me.”

He swung the shovel like an ax, making a great rushing sound and tattering the fog.

The dark girl leaped, dodged the swing, and caught hold of the handle. She was incredibly strong. She wrenched the shovel from his grip and flung it off into the night.

“Watch out,” he warned. “I’ll—”

Her hands were all at once around his neck, fingers digging into flesh.

The fog and the blackness of the night seemed to be flowing into him through his open, gasping mouth. An awful coldness filled him. The fingers dug deeper and deeper.