Detective Fiction Weekly. Vol. 75, No. 4, April 15, 1933
- Автор: Day Stanley, Dunn J. Allan
- Год: 1933
- Язык: английский
- Год: Red Star News Company
- Жанр: Другие детективы
Электронная книга - «Detective Fiction Weekly. Vol. 75, No. 4, April 15, 1933». Краткое содержание книги:
A man came out of the darkness toward him and growled, “Who’s that?”
Flash recognized the voice as that of Jim Freeman, a deputy sheriff, and answered. “It’s Dan Horton, Jim.”
“Who killed Ben Africa?”
“We don’t know — yet. Will you do me a favor? Run up to Mrs. Africa’s room and find if she’s there. That’s all. Just make sure she’s there.”
“Okay.” The deputy sheriff walked over to the veranda and entered the house.
In his absence, Flash turned the car about. Jim Freeman returned. His eyes had a dazzled look. It wasn’t necessary for him to say that Lotus Africa was in her room. Flash could understand any man’s looking dazzled for some time after gazing upon that exotically lovely face.
“She’s there,” he said.
“Thanks,” Flash said, and started off, crowding the accelerator pedal to the floor boards. If the Eurasian girl had not left that shred of vivid red silk on that bush, who, then, had? It was evident that this shred of red silk was to add still another bright thread to the mystery.
What, he wondered, was taking place in that dark and sinister house?
He drove rapidly, trying to think. He was unprepared for the shocking surprise which awaited him where the winding bluestone driveway merged with the Milltown Pike. As he slowed for the sharp turn into the Pike, two tall, thin black figures like huge black apes jumped on the running board, one on either side. Flash had an instant’s impression of a white handkerchief masking a face, and then a hand reached in like a striking snake. A black-sleeved arm was about his neck. A gloved palm was clamped down over his mouth. Another hand jerked the emergency brake. Still another hand flicked off the headlights.
In total darkness, the roadster swerved into the ditch and came to a grinding stop.
Chapter XII
Flight in the Darkness
The roadster had hardly stopped when both doors were opened. Muscular arms pinned Flash Horton’s elbows to his side. He was roughly dragged out onto the road. The muzzle of a gun was pressed to his back. He was as helpless as if he were an insect imprisoned by the black arms of a tarantula.
The gun, prodding his back, started him walking.
Speculations milled in his brain. Who were these men? Old enemies? New ones? Where had they come from and what did they want? Where were they taking him?
His first conclusion was a rendezvous. They were taking him, by force, to meet someone.
But gradually the conviction was chillingly borne in upon him that this was no rendezvous. These grim, silent men were going to kill him.
They had by this time reached the pasture across from the entrance gates to Skull Knob. They were marching him across the pasture. There was no light. The sky was still overcast. And neither of these black-garbed, mysterious men carried lights of any kind.
The only sound was the soft, steady tramping of feet on the ground.
Flash said, with a sudden surge of helpless fury, “What the devil is this all about!”
There was no answer, no sound but the soft, heavy trampling of feet. His vision, now more adjusted to the darkness, could make out the scraggly arms of the apple orchard toward which they were taking him, and the greater blackness of their figures against the blackness of the night.
The muzzle of the gun pressed relentlessly, warningly, into his back.
He knew they meant to kill him. But why? Who were they? His heart was hammering on a crescendo of panic. He was thinking of Margy, left alone. And the thought of Margy made him suddenly faint and sick.
Flash, frantically searching his mind for the reason behind this hideous march through the night, suddenly sensed that some command had been given. A silent command. His two captors were proceeding more slowly.
Then Flash understood. This was not the spot where he was to be killed. They had reached the old rail fence which zig-zagged down the boundary between the pasture and the old orchard. They were merely pausing to negotiate this fence.
He was to be hoisted over the fence. The scene of death was farther beyond.
With hands firmly gripping each of his elbows, Flash was pushed to the fence. He was supposed to step over it.
He lifted his left foot. But he did not step over it. He brought his foot up and sharply backward and outward. The heel struck bone with a sharp crackling sound. A man hoarsely cursed and the tension of Flash’s left arm was abruptly relaxed. With a wrench, he freed the other arm. In the same savage forward motion, he leaped up and over the fence. His right toe did not, however, clear the top rail. It caught.
He fell forward. He stiffened himself for the thump. He struck the ground, rolled over and sprang to his feet, unhurt. He was free!
Behind him he heard a quick whisper. He saw a flicker of light stab out, but there was only a mild report, softer than the clapping of a pair of hands. Someone had fired a gun equipped with a silencer.
The bullet went crackling among the branches of an apple tree.
Flash ran on. The ground, covered with rotting apples, was soft and treacherous. He slipped, fell; picked himself up and then ran headlong into an apple tree.
A second bullet clipped over his head.
He heard his recent captors floundering about behind him. He plunged on now with his hands outstretched, to escape further collision with trees.
Presently he reached a second fence. Because of his frequent encounters with trees, his turning this way and that, he had lost all sense of direction.
But he climbed this fence. And sank knee-deep in mire. He was in a swamp. He did not know this part of the valley enough to guess where he was. There were so many swamps. But he heard the noise of the pursuit. He could not retreat. He must push on through this swamp.
He made his way carefully. He had apparently entered a zone of flatlands composed of juicy mud and stagnant water. He could not run. He must walk slowly. He slipped and fell often.
At length he heard the gurgle and splash of water ahead of him. Still he could not visualize the geography of this place. This creek was Ten Mile Creek, which wound and twisted from one end of the valley to the other. In some places it was so shallow that a small dog could cross without wetting his belly. In other places it was over a man’s head.
Flash gingerly entered the creek. The water was bitter cold. It filled his shoes. As he progressed, it reached his knees, then his waist. Shivering, he floundered across.
On the other side was more swamp. He splashed through perhaps two hundred yards of marsh, then reached firm ground again. It was a pasture. At the end of it he saw looming a vague white oblong. A barn or a house.
He stopped and listened. Faintly, he could hear the gurgle and chuckle of Ten Mile Creek, but there was no other sound. He had shaken off the pursuit.
Chapter XIII
The Black Ball
But his elation, was short-lived? There still remained to be solved the mystery of his capture by the unknown pair. Who were they, and what purpose lay behind their attack on him?
With water and swamp mud streaming from his clothing, Flash plodded across the pasture toward the vague white oblong. He shivered with cold. He was wet to the skin. There wasn’t a square inch of dryness on his whole body. He sneezed.
The white house, the cluster of red outbuildings off to the right, and the row of elms beyond the house, although all were mere shadows in the blackness, suddenly assumed familiarity.
Unless Flash was mistaken, this was Jeb Simpson’s farmhouse. And he had, in crossing pastures, orchards, swamp, creek and more swamp, crossed the apex of an angle formed by the junction of the Blue Rock Road and the Milltown Turnpike. He was actually less than two miles from his own house.