The Avenger 36 - Demon Island (9 page)

The flames reached the wooden table and it commenced burning.

“Ah, that’s better,” said Cole.

The fire lit up the room. The corner Stark had ducked into was empty. He wasn’t in the room at all.

“He took a powder,” observed Smitty, getting to his feet.

“Either friend Stark’s been taking lessons from Blackstone the Magician or there’s some sort of secret way out,” said Cole. “Ah, pixie, is it truly you?”

Little Nellie had appeared in the doorway, holding the flashlight. “You’re alive,” she said in a small voice.

“Yes, despite being buried underground for several days.”

The blonde hesitated for a few seconds, then ran across the stone floor and put her arms around the grinning Cole. “I’m glad.”

Smitty frowned and went over for a closer look at the corner Stark had vanished from. Running his hand along the wall, he detected a very thin crack which ran from floor to ceiling. “Some kind of hidden door here all right,” he said. “I said there’s . . .” He turned to see what Cole and Nellie were up to. “Aw, mush.”

Dick Benson strode across the misty courtyard. “Terence,” he said.

O’Malley had been standing near a stone wall, watching the foggy night forest. “Oh, hello, Benson.”

“I’d like to have a talk with you.”

“Sure, now’s as good a time as any,” said the young director. “Still nothing on Cole, huh?”

“Last night,” said the Avenger, “I got a glimpse of the person who killed the man we found.”

O’Malley kept his face expressionless. “I didn’t know that.”

“It was a woman,” continued Benson. “I followed her to within a short distance of this mansion and lost her.”

“That doesn’t sound like you, from what I’ve heard.”

“I was knocked down, which slowed me up enough to let the woman get completely away.”

“Knocked down? Who did that?”

“There’s something very unusual going on on Demon Island,” said Benson. “I was felled by some . . . unseen force. Something which was, I think, supernatural.”

O’Malley tried a laugh. “You ought to be making this movie and not me,” he said. “Supernatural? I didn’t think you believed in—”

“I believe in a good many unusual and unorthodox things,” said the Avenger. “But only in things I’ve witnessed myself. And I witnessed something last night.”

“You mean you think it was . . . what? A ghost?”

“Some kind of spirit force, yes.”

“Just because they call this place Demon Island, that doesn’t mean—

“Sometimes a place gets a bad reputation simply because it’s a bad place,” said Benson. “You’ve been keeping something back from me, Terence. I’d like to know what it is.”

The Avenger’s eyes seemed to flash now, and O’Malley found that he couldn’t look away from them. “Look, Benson, maybe you can’t understand this. I want to get this film made on time and under budget.”

“The sooner we clean up the trouble on this island, the sooner you can concentrate on your film.”

O’Malley poked his tongue around the inside of his cheek for a while. “Okay, here’s what I know,” he said at last. “It may not have anything to do with Cole’s vanishing or with that poor guy getting himself killed. Anyway, it concerns Fanny Fiddler. You heard about her sleepwalking or whatever it was on the night Cole took off. Well, I know she was out again last night. She dressed up in one of the costumes from the wardrobe room and went roaming. Now, look, I just went over the whole thing with her. Okay, they say in this town never trust an actress, but I believe the kid. She’s telling the truth. I’m certain of that.”

“What does she say?”

“Not much, only that she doesn’t remember anything. She remembers going to bed and then later finding herself in the wardrobe room. She knew she’d been out in the woods, but that’s all.”

“A white dress, a flowing white dress, is that what was borrowed?”

“Yeah, that’s right. My head wardrobe lady hasn’t noticed the mud spots yet, but when she does . . . Is Fanny the one you followed last night?”

“I believe so.”

“Yeah, but then that means she killed that guy in there. A perfect stranger to her, far as we know.”

“If she didn’t kill him, she was close enough to see who did.”

“I don’t see how Fanny could strangle somebody to death,” said O’Malley. “She’s a tough little dame, but not that strong.”

“Someone may have helped her.”

“Some person?”

“Or some spirit.” The Avenger turned to face the castle. “I think we’d better go in and talk to Miss Fiddler.”

“Yeah, okay, if you think so.” The young director fell in beside Benson. “Makes me feel bad; she’ll think I double-crossed her.”

“It can’t be helped.”

“I guess not, but still—”

Inside the mansion a woman screamed.

Stark had stepped through the wall of the underground room and into a stone-walled tunnel. On a shelf a few feet from the secret door was a flashlight. He felt around in the dark until his blunt fingers closed on it and turned it on.

Nobody knows about this tunnel system but me, he thought as he moved along the damp, earth-smelling corridor.

This network of underground rooms and passageways had been built years ago by Silva and his men when Demon Island was being used as a waystation in the liquor-running operation. Silva, in his last days in the prison hospital, had told Stark all about it.

“If only he’d have told me where he stashed that dough,” he mumbled.

It looked like Stark would have to give up the idea of finding Silva’s hidden loot. With Jepson and Tucker dead and with cops crawling all over the island, he’d have to kiss the money goodbye.

They even knew about the underground rooms. That was probably that fat jerk Morrison’s fault. Well, they didn’t know about these tunnels. Stark hadn’t even confided in his associates about the tunnel system.

This particular corridor led right under the island to the castle. Stark had used it once today already. That was how he’d heard about Tucker and learned that the police were on Demon Island. You came out in a hollow place in one of the room walls up in the mansion.

The thing now was to get himself off the island.

That’s not going to be too tough, he told himself.

They’d been dropped on the island by a launch belonging to a friend of his. When the dough was found, Stark was to signal the guy. Or when they wanted off the island. That was out now. Too many people snooping around.

So I got to arrange for some other transportation for myself, he decided.

He reached the end of the tunnel and climbed silently up the metal stairs. Inside the wall, he put his eye to the peephole. Yeah, the auburn-haired girl was alone in her room. With her as a hostage they’d see he got off the island in style.

Stark smiled to himself, clutched his gun, and pushed the button which opened the panel in the wall.

The wall slid open and Stark stepped into Heather Brail’s bedroom.

The girl screamed.

“One more of those, baby, and you’re dead,” he told her.

“Excelsior, as my uncle Heathcote says,” said Smitty. He’d located the concealed lever which opened the wall in the underground room.

Cole and Nellie had, in the meantime, extinguished the burning furniture. “Lead on, Smitty,” said Cole. “I’m anxious to see where the elusive Mr. Stark has gotten to.”

Nellie stepped over to flash the light down the revealed tunnel. “That looks gloomier than the Manhattan subway.”

Smitty, ducking his head, stepped into the corridor. “Must have been them bootleggers who built all this little setup.”

“No doubt,” agreed Cole, grinning. “Let us now dog Stark’s footsteps.”

“Oops.” Nellie snapped her fingers. “We forgot about our fat friend upstairs.”

“I’ll go fetch him.” Smitty trotted across the room, out the door, and up the ladder.

Nellie asked, “What were these boys planning to do with you, Cole?”

“My ultimate fate was a topic of considerable debate among them,” he answered. “Unfortunately, the lads who favored letting me go free as a bird had a tendency to meet sudden and violent ends.”

“The man Smitty and Dick found was one of the gang?”

“He was no doubt the ill-fated Tucker.”

“What exactly are they up to?”

“What do people usually do on mysterious islands? Look for buried treasure.”

“Oh, so? How romantic. Pirate gold or what?”

“A more recent brand of loot, pixie. Bootlegger’s cash.”

Grunting, Smitty reappeared. “This bird’s even heavier than he looks.” The fat Morrison was slung over his shoulder, unconscious.

“He’s still out cold,” observed Nellie.

“Well, he was waking up and I had to conk him again a little bit.” Smitty looked at his two compatriots. “Might as well bring him along, huh?”

“You feel like toting him?” asked Cole. “We may end up at the earth’s core or some equally remote spot.”

“I’ll lug him. It’s no big deal.”

With Nellie carrying the light and leading the parade, the trio entered the tunnel.

“I heard you blabbing about buried treasure,” Smitty said to Cole. “Is that what these goons were after?”

“Yes, apparently the late bootlegger king of this island is said to have hidden a million dollars in cash somewhere on Demon Island.”

“A million bucks,” said the giant. “That’s why they started knocking each other off.”

“On the contrary,” said Cole. “The survivors were completely in the dark as to who did poor Tucker in. And there was another lad done to death—chap named Jepson—before we arrived on the scene.”

“Hold on now, Cole. If these bozos didn’t do the killing . . . that means somebody in the movie bunch is a murderer.”

“I don’t think Richard believes that,” said Nellie.

“Huh?”

“Better let him tell you his theory,” said Nellie. “He hasn’t actually told me anything specific, but I am picking up hints.”

“Wait a sec,” said Smitty. “It’s got something to do with spooks. Yeah, because last night Dick was hinting at something like that.”

“Richard must really be taking Demon Island seriously,” remarked Cole.

“Well, I hate to believe in spooks and junk like that,” said Smitty. “Still, if Dick believes in ’em . . . well, he’s usually right.”

“Remember, Josh was telling us about a girl who’d been murdered here back in the twenties,” said Nellie. “Maybe she’s the one who’s haunting the place.”

“Aw, a ghostly flapper,” said Cole.

“I can’t see a dame ghost going around choking guys,” said Smitty. “That’s a man’s type of murder.”

“Hush a minute,” cautioned Nellie in a lower voice.

From up ahead in the darkness, from beyond the reach of the flashlight beam, came a scraping, creaking sound.

A few seconds later there was a single scream.

“That’s Heather,” said Cole. “Come on.” He took hold of Nellie’s elbow and the pair ran along the tunnel.

Lt. Bonner was in the castle kitchen, fixing himself a Spam sandwich, when he heard the scream. It was the first chance he’d had to eat since morning. He thought for a few seconds about taking the newly constructed sandwich along with him, then thought better of it. Leaving it on the vast table, he ran out into the hall.

The sound had come from upstairs some place.

Richard Benson and Terence O’Malley were ahead of him, rushing up the wide staircase.

Nearly to the top, the two men suddenly halted.

Lt. Bonner saw why an instant later.

At the top of the stairs stood Stark, with the slender Heather held in front of him. He had his automatic pressed to the girl’s temple.

“Okay, now listen good to me,” Stark was saying. “I want off this island. This dame is my ticket. I want a boat.”

“You’ll never get anywhere,” said the policeman, moving up to stop near the other two men. “The Coast Guard and the Harbor Patrol will—”

“Shut up,” said Stark. “You just remember this, buddy. If anybody stops me—anybody—the dame is dead. You don’t want to see a good-looking dame like this with half her head blown off? Naw, of course you don’t. Now you, copper, I want the keys to the boat you must have come over on.” He nodded at Bonner.

“I won’t—”