The Avenger 36 - Demon Island (4 page)

“Put her on the sofa in the library here,” instructed the company physician. “These actresses . . . if it isn’t booze, it’s dope.”

“It ain’t that.” Candy set the unconscious girl carefully down on the fat sofa. “I’ve seen plenty of both, and she isn’t high on anything like that.”

“We’ll see.” Dr. Mandell took the actress’s pulse, then rolled back her eyelid. “No, you’re right, Candy. She’s not high on anything.”

“Been out in the woods all night.”

“Is she dead?” Heather Brail had come into the room.

“Not at all,” the bearded doctor assured her.

“I’m afraid I dozed off while I was waiting for . . . where’s Cole?”

“Wilson?” said Candy. “Was he out there too?”

Heather brought a hand up to her cheek. “Yes, he went to look for Fanny,” she said. “Didn’t he bring her back?”

“Haven’t seen Wilson at all. I saw Miss Fiddler out of a dorm window. She was stumbling around like a lost kid.”

“I don’t understand.”

“You should’ve roused me and some of the boys.”

“Yes, I know,” said Heather. “The thing is, while I was waiting up for Cole Wilson to return I’m afraid I fell asleep. I woke only now, when I heard you calling down here.”

“Very odd.” Dr. Mandell shook his head and stroked his bushy beard. “There doesn’t seem to be anything wrong with this young lady. And yet—”

Fanny moaned once and opened her eyes. She blinked up at them for several seconds. “What the heck is going on?” she asked as she struggled to a sitting position. “What’s everybody doing in my darn bedroom? I don’t mind roughing it, but this . . . Hey!” She realized that she wasn’t where she’d thought.

“Miss Fiddler,” said Dr. Mandell, “you were found wandering out in the woods.”

“What kind of a line are you trying to feed me?” The dark-haired girl began to notice her tattered nightdress. “Say, I don’t get this. If somebody’s pulling a gag on me, my agent is going to—”

“Fanny? What the hell happened?” O’Malley came striding into the room.

“That’s what somebody better tell me,” said Fanny, folding her arms and scowling.

Heather said, “I noticed that Fanny wasn’t in her room last night, Terry. I told Cole about it and he went out to hunt for her. Things seemed to indicate she’d climbed out the window.”

“Are you nuts, Gertie?” demanded the little actress. “I’m not Johnny Weismuller’s pet chimp.”

“Shut up for a minute, Fanny,” suggested O’Malley. “What time was this last night, Heather?”

“Around about midnight.”

“And Cole didn’t find her until now.” He glanced at his watch. “Nearly six-fifteen.”

“Cole didn’t find her at all,” said Heather. “He . . . I don’t know where he is.”

“I told him this island was a spooky place,” said Candy.

“Let’s forget about laughing boy for a minute,” said Fanny. “I want to know who’s been playing tricks on me.”

O’Malley said, “You tell us. You climbed out your window and spent all night out there in the woods. Why?”

“Are you kidding? It’s bad enough bunking in the drafty bedroom you stuck me with. I’m not about to go out and get a fatal chill in the woods. I think somebody must have . . .” Her words trailed off and she suddenly went pale. She had apparently remembered something.

“What is it?” asked the young director.

Fanny hugged herself and shook her head. “Nothing, nothing at all. I just got the goosebumps all of a sudden. I probably picked up pneumonia out there. And if I die, my agent is going to—”

“Fanny, listen to me,” said O’Malley. “Nobody played a joke on you. Now what do you think happened?”

She avoided his eyes, shook her head from side to side. “Everything went black. That’s all I know from last night to now.” She reached out a hand to the doctor. “Can you help me get back to my own room, Doc?”

“Yes, of course.” He offered her his arm.

“Can you shoot around me for a few hours, Terry?” Fanny asked as she was helped toward the doorway. “I figure to be back in fighting shape by lunchtime.”

“Sure, don’t worry. Rest up.”

“Jinxed,” said Candy under his breath. “I seen movies jinxed before.”

When Fanny was gone O’Malley turned to Heather. “What do you think?”

“I don’t know what to think. Fanny doesn’t seem like the kind of girl to be a sleepwalker. And didn’t I hear Dr. Mandell say she wasn’t drunk?”

Candy nodded. “Naw, she’s sober as a judge. I tell you, Miss Brail, I figure we got us some kind of spook to worry ab—”

“All this gab isn’t going to find Cole,” cut in O’Malley. “He’s been gone over six hours. You sure he didn’t just give up and go back to his room?”

Heather said, “No, because that’s where I was waiting for him. I feel asleep in a chair.”

“Cole knows how to take care of himself,” said the director. “This beats me.”

“Spooks,” murmured Candy.

“Doesn’t look like we’re going to start filming on schedule today, Candy. So why don’t you and a few of the boys take a look out in the forest. I’ll come along and lend a hand. We should be able to find him.”

But they didn’t.

If he’d grown just a few scant inches more the big man would have been seven feet tall. He was hurrying along a windy Manhattan street, hands in his overcoat pockets, wide shoulders slightly hunched. His name was Algernon Heathcote Smith. Though nobody called him that very often, chiefly because he didn’t much like the name and Smitty wasn’t the kind of guy many people wanted to risk annoying.

Right now he was on his way to the Bleek Street offices of Justice, Incorporated, to that unobtrusive block of old brownstones which housed the most efficient crime-fighting organization in the country. He was anxious to learn if a new invention of his had worked.

The wind whipped at him, whistling along the gray streets. That didn’t bother Smitty too much. Spring wasn’t far off. He could ignore the chill weather until then.

Smitty let himself into the headquarters building, went up to the offices of Justice, Inc. MacMurdie was alone in the office at the moment, leafing through a copy of
Life.

“Did it work?” inquired the giant eagerly.

“Eh? To what are ye alluding, lad?”

“My sound-recording machine, what else?” Smitty gestured toward a corner of the room.

Sitting there was a cloth-faced radio. Attached to it was a black and silver box.

“That gadget that’s been making all the weird noises, do ye mean?”

Smitty trotted over, knelt down, and flicked a couple of switches. “I had some errands to take care of, so I couldn’t be here to listen to this morning’s episode of my favorite of all radio shows.”

“Whoosh!” said the Scot. “Are ye still addicted to that Life of Mary Jones?”

“That ain’t the name of it. It’s the
Romance of Mary Joyce, M.D.”
Smitty deftly extracted a spool of wire from one compartment of the box and inserted it in another. “You can have Norman Corwin and Orson Welles. The guys who turn out the soap operas are the greatest geniuses on the air.”

“Mon, do ye mean ta tell me you invented a recording machine just so ye kin replay that drivel?”

“Hold on, Mac, it ain’t drivel.” Smitty scowled. “I don’t mind Cole and Josh razzing me about it, but I figure you for a more sensitive sort of bozo.”

“Aye, that I am, lad,” agreed Mac. “I’m sorry I chided ye. That gadget made a recording of the show when it was broadcast?”

“Yeah, it’s got a timer. It turns on and records when nobody’s around. That way when I get back I can hear my show. Seems to me a lot of people would like a gizmo like this.” He pushed a toggle ahead.

Sad organ music burst forth from the recording machine. “Flowtz Soap, the soap you can’t drown, brings you once again the heartaches and triumphs of the
Romance of Mary Joyce, M.D.”
announced a somber voice. “The everyday story of a lovely surgeon, who must face—”

“My watch must be awful fast.” Joshua Newton had sauntered into the office. “I thought that thing was over hours ago.”

“Shush,” said Smitty, leaning closer to his invention.

The recording was saying, “. . . and what of the letter that devil-may-care publishing wizard Roger Cooper sent to Mary while she was on the mend in Baron Kaminsky’s remote ski lodge? Did seemingly good-natured Woody Carr, the local postman, really deliver it, as he claims? And what of little Jerry? Can he possibly hold his breath long enough to . . .”

“Is that Rita Hayworth?” Josh asked Mac, pointing at the open magazine.

“ ’Tis the winner of a Rita Hayworth look-alike contest.”

“Yeah, she does look like her . . . except for the crossed eyes.”

“Ahuhm,” said a small voice.

“Morning to ye, Nell,” said MacMurdie, standing up and nodding at Nellie Gray.

The little blonde crossed the office and perched on the arm of a chair. “Morning. Hi, Josh.”

“Fixing your hair different, Nell?”

The girl fluffed her hair. “I was getting in a rut,” she said. “Morning, Smitty.”

“Huh?”

“I said good morning.”

“Oh, yeah, sure.”

“. . . and meanwhile, doddering old Dr. Plaut has misplaced his scalpel and . . .”

“Anybody hear from Cole?” Josh asked his colleagues.

“I got a postcard yesterday,” replied Nellie. “A color picture of an orange.”

“I remember the last time he went out there to pal around with his movie friends,” said the black man. “That really turned into something.”

“We may have another unusual situation.” Richard Henry Benson had entered the room. A young man of average size with thick, close-cropped black hair. There was something in the smooth, coordinated way he strode to his desk which hinted that he was an exceptional young man. The look in his pale, deadly eyes backed up that impression.

“Has something happened to Cole?” asked Nellie.

Seating himself behind his desk, the Avenger said, “I received a call from southern California a few moments ago.”

Smitty turned off his machine and blinked. “Huh? What’s wrong with old Cole?”

“It may be nothing,” said Dick Benson. “The call was from his director friend, Terence O’Malley. Cole went out with them to an island where they’re going to do some filming. That was yesterday. Last evening there was an unusual incident and Cole went out to investigate. He never came back.”

“Golly,” said Nellie, biting a thumb knuckle. “Do they think he . . . drowned or something?”

The Avenger said, “Right now there’s no trace of Cole, no indication of what happened. He’s been missing for over a dozen hours.”

“What was this incident?” asked black Josh.

“One of the actresses left her room at about midnight,” answered Benson. “When it was noticed she was gone, Cole went out to hunt for her.”

“Was it that one he got chummy with last time?” asked little blonde Nellie. “That Heather Brail?”

The Avenger shook is head. “The girl bears the name of Fanny Fiddler,” he said.

“Oh, sure,” said Josh. “She was in
Belle of Old San Bernardino.”

“The girl was spotted early this morning,” continued the Avenger. “She’d apparently been out in the wilds all night. She had no idea why she’d gone out, exiting her room by way of the window, by the way. And she didn’t see Cole at all.”

“ ’Tis a somewhat unusual situation,” observed Mac.

“Oh, actresses are always up to something,” said little Nellie. “It might even be a publicity stunt.”

“It might be,” said Benson, “but Cole would never lend himself to anything like that.”

“That island,” said the giant Smitty. “It’s got some kind of goofy reputation, ain’t it?”

“Sure, it’s supposed to be haunted,” said Josh. “The place is named San Obito but everybody calls it Demon Island. That’s why Cole’s buddy wanted to make part of his new movie there.”

“Hout,” said Mac, “I dinna believe the spooks have got hold of Cole.”

“Yeah,” said Smitty, “but an island . . . that’s not like Manhattan Island. I mean, it’s a little dump. How good a job did these movie ginks do of looking for Cole?”

“Most of the island was gone over,” answered the Avenger. “A great deal of it is overgrown, so the search was only a superficial one.”

“That island was used by rumrunners back in the late twenties,” said Josh. “Could be there are places on Demon Island that nobody knows about. You know, some kind of secret hideout.”

“There are several possibilities to look into,” said Dick Benson. “I think we’d better fly out to California and take a look.”

“I thought,” said Josh, “you wanted a couple of us to nose into that strange business down in Florida?”

“Yes, I’d like you and Mac to handle that,” said the Avenger. “Smitty, Nellie, and I will take one of our planes out to the coast.”

“I knew Cole couldn’t go on a vacation without getting into a jam,” said Smitty.

Nellie said, “Let’s hope we can get him out of it.”

“No, I mean that sincerely,” said Cole Wilson. “It’s very cozy here.”

“Shut up,” Stark told him.

“Far be it from me to criticize your demeanor, old boy,” said Cole, who was tied very securely to a wooden chair. “However, I do think you’re far from being the perfect host.”

“We ought to sink this bird in the drink,” said Stark.

“There’ll be none of that,” said Morrison. “We will have no murders or crimes of violence associated with this venture.”

“What exactly is this venture, if I may be so bold as to—”

Smack!

Stark had risen up off his stool and slapped Cole across the face. “When I tell you to shut up, I mean it.”

“Here now,” said Morrison, “that’s enough. I won’t have him mistreated.”

“Don’t bellyache to me. I didn’t drag him down here.”

Tucker was leaning against the stone wall of the underground room. “What else could I do? He was heading right for one of our concealed entrances. I barely had time to run the cord across—”

“The reason we call ’em concealed, peanut brain, is because they’re concealed. If you hadn’t tripped him up and sapped him, he’d have gone on about his business.”

“Maybe yes, maybe no.”

“The morale down here,” observed Cole, “doesn’t seem of too high an order.”