The Avenger 36 - Demon Island (10 page)

“Give him the keys,” said O’Malley. “He’ll kill her.”

“You’re right, I will. Because even if I kill her, I can still shoot my way out of here. Now give me the boat keys and then stand back.”

Lt. Bonner put his hand into his pocket.

The Avenger said, “We’d better comply with him, Lieutenant.”

The policeman let go of the knife he’d grasped and drew the launch key.

Pushing Heather ahead of him, Stark came down the staircase. “Put it in the dame’s hand,” he ordered.

Bonner complied.

“Okay,” said Stark, “now we’re going to take us a little boat ride.”

“You won’t get away with it,” said the policeman.

Stark laughed. “You’re starting to sound like a movie.”

Lt. Bonner ran down across the gritty night beach. “Lupoff, Thompson,” he called to his two colleagues. “We’re going to use one of the movie launches.” He tossed the borrowed ring of keys to Sgt. Lupoff. “Let’s get going.”

Lupoff caught the keys and the three policemen walked out on the little makeshift jetty where two motor launches were moored.

“He’s got a five-minute lead,” Thompson pointed out. “In this pea-soup fog it’s going to be tough to catch him.”

“We’ll catch him,” said the lieutenant, dropping into the boat. “I’ve phoned the boys in the harbor to watch out for him.”

“He’ll kill the girl if anybody gets too close,” said Lupoff.

“We know how to stalk a man without his knowing. Get this thing started.”

Inserting the key, Lupoff said, “How come that Avenger guy isn’t taking off after them?”

“I don’t know,” said Bonner.

“Maybe he’s got an angle we—”

“Start the boat!”

Lupoff started the boat.

The Avenger held the glass capsule beneath Morrison’s nose. “Now you’re—”

“What is that stuff? What are you going to do to me?”

Benson’s powerful fingers snapped the glass and the truth gas was released. “You’ll answer my questions.”

The fat man’s eyes glazed. “I’ll answer your questions.”

“The man who took Heather Brail,” said the Avenger. “Who is he?”

“Don Stark,” replied the drugged Morrison.

“What are you doing on the island?”

“Looking for the money.”

“What money?”

“Silva, the bootlegger, buried a million bucks here.”

“Where?”

“We don’t know the exact location, that’s what’s taken us so long.”

The Avenger leaned closer to the fat man. “All right, now where will Stark take the girl?”

“I don’t know.”

“He’s heading back toward the coast. Where is he likely to go?”

“He has a brother out beyond Pasadena. He might try to hole up there.”

“Too far to go with the girl along. Some place closer to the ocean.”

“The orange grove, perhaps.”

“Where is that?”

“A few miles from San Amaro,” replied Morrison. “It’s no longer an orange grove, actually. It went bust back in the thirties. Stark knew the people who used to run it. I think he’s been living in the abandoned ranch house there.”

“Did he tell you about this place, the ranch house?”

“No, he didn’t confide in me that much, even though we were partners,” said the fat man. “I found out about this from Tucker.”

“Then he’s not likely to know that you’re aware of the place?”

“Yes, that’s the case, I’m sure.”

The Avenger turned away from the man. “It seems like a likely place to start looking.”

Smitty rubbed his hands together. “Let’s get rolling.”

“I want you and Nellie to stick here at the castle,” Benson told the giant. “Keep an eye on the Fiddler girl.”

“I want to help find Heather,” said Cole.

“Yes, I knew you would,” said the Avenger.

The two men left the room side by side and hurried downstairs.

The motor launch moved through the heavy fog. The mournful hoots of foghorns sounded in the distance.

“I’d feel more at ease,” said Cole, “if we’d been able to persuade the good lieutenant to be a bit less impetuous. Having lived with friend Stark for several fun-filled days, I know he may well kill Heather.”

“Bonner is a bit imperious, but I don’t think he’ll do anything to risk the girl’s life.”

“Let us fervently hope so,” said Cole. “What was all that business about watching the Fiddler wench?”

Benson concentrated on his steering of the launch for a moment. “It looks to me as though we have two separate problems to consider, Cole. Some of the trouble on Demon Island was due to your friends the gold hunters. But there’s something else going on.”

“Something other-worldly?”

The foghorns called again before the Avenger answered, “I think so.”

“Putting a stop to the doings of spies and rascals has never presented too much of a problem, Richard,” said Cole. “Spirits and demons now . . . are we up to it?”

“Yes,” answered the Avenger.

The voice returned to talk to her.

Fanny Fiddler didn’t want to go to bed. She was determined to sit up in a chair beside her bed and read, drinking coffee from a thermos. Maybe, if she could stay awake most of the night . . .

The voice returned to talk to her.

Her room seemed suddenly blurred by fog, as though the night mist were seeping in from outside.

And there was a shape, the figure of a girl, faintly formed in the swirling mist.

Fanny felt very cold. She tried to rise up out of the chair. She couldn’t. Some force held her there.

The voice didn’t come from the misty figure. It was inside Fanny’s head.

You belong to me,
it assured her.
I can use your body whenever I wish.

The dark-haired actress twisted in her chair and rocked from side to side. “No, I won’t let . . .” She grew still.

I control you. There is nothing you can do about it.

Yes, that was so. Fanny could not even move. This is what had happened to her twice before. Twice before in the night this . . . she wasn’t even sure what it was.

Now I am going to enter your body,
the voice told her.
You will be the shell that clothes my spirit.

It became colder and colder in the misty room. Fanny strained to move, to cry out. She could do nothing.

You cannot fight me. I am too strong for that.

Fanny felt herself go limp and slump back in the chair. The plastic coffee cup fell from her hand, splashed coffee across the arm of the chair, and toppled to the floor.

Someone else is going to die tonight,
promised the voice.
You will help me see to it.

No! said Fanny inside herself.

Yes, my dear. It is much easier to kill when one has a body of flesh and blood. Much more exciting.

A terrible pain ran through the girl’s body. Then she felt nothing. It was as though all her senses had been switched off. Blackness seemed to fill her.

Rise now,
ordered the voice.
Walk to the door.

The girl rose and walked toward the door.

“They must have been a morbid bunch,” said Smitty as he scanned the high, built-in bookshelves of the castle library. “Look at this row of stuff.
The Witch Cult in Europe,
the
Necronomicon,
a beat-up copy of
Malleus Maleficarum.
Not the kind of thing you’d want to curl up in bed with.”

Nellie said, “Um.” She was sitting, legs turned under her, in a huge armchair. An old, yellowed scrapbook lay open on her lap.

“What’s that? Another occult special?”

“It’s one of Esmeralda Zak’s books of newspaper clippings.”

“Who?”

“Esmeralda Zak, the silent-screen star who used to own this pile,” replied the little blonde.

“Aw, you’re as bad as Josh. Always talking about old, forgotten, movie has-beens.” The giant dropped down into a chair opposite the girl. “I figure if you know who Betty Grable is, that’s enough show-business lore to carry around in your noggin.”

“This particular book, which I found stuck in with a mixed-up set of encyclopedias over there, has clippings about the mysterious death that took place here in the 1920s.”

Smitty became more attentive. “You mean the dame who might be the Demon Island ghost?”

“Yes.” Nellie tapped a faded, brittle newspaper clipping. “Here’s a picture of the girl. Her name was Nita DelMar.”

“I bet it was.” Smitty leaned over to look at the photo. “Not a bad-looking dame. They sure liked them skinny in those days, huh?”

“Speaking of girls,” said Nellie, “Dick wanted you to keep watch over Fanny Fiddler.”

“I did,” said Smitty. “She turned in an hour ago. I was camped outside her door on a canvas stool for a while, but she stuck her mug out and told me to take a powder. She’s a pretty tough little dame.”

“She’s been known to climb out her window.”

“Aw, Lieutenant Bonner’s got one of his boys prowling around out there.”

“I thought they’re all off hunting for the fellow who kidnapped Heather Brail.”

“Naw, he left a bunch of cops behind,” the giant told her. “I figure Bonner thinks the Fiddler broad is mixed in something fishy, too.”

“Okay, so she can’t climb out her window,” said Nellie. “She could come out the regular way.”

Smitty cocked his head. “I can see the stairs from here. If she tries to take a midnight stroll I’ll spot her.”

The blonde turned a page in the old scrapbook. “They were sure vague about what happened to the DelMar girl. It could have been anything from an accident to murder.”

Smitty pointed a thumb at a grainy photo with an X drawn on it. “That the scene of the crime?”

“It’s where they found her body. She’d apparently fallen from some place up on the roof.”

“That’s right under the Fiddler dame’s window, ain’t it?”

Nellie studied the photo for a half moment longer. “Yes, you’re right.”

Smitty cracked his knuckles, leaning back thoughtfully in his chair. “The DelMar gal is a pretty good candidate for being our local ghost then.”

“If you want to believe in ghosts.”

“Well, I tell you,” said Smitty. “I’m usually pretty skeptical, but since Dick seems to think we got us a spook on this island . . . I mean, he usually ain’t wrong.”

Nellie closed the scrapbook. “She was only twenty-two. That’s not very old.”

A drizzling rain was falling. The ruined orange trees stretched across the muddy fields in dismal black rows.

“See?” said Stark, prodding Heather in the back with his gun. “We made it this far without one smart-guy cop stopping us.”

They were nearing the low, sprawling ranch house.

“It isn’t only the police you have to worry about,” the girl said. The rain had made her hair cling to her face.

“Here’s the house. Push the door open and go in.”

The slender actress did as she was told.

“Okay now,” instructed Stark. “Stay right there by the doorway.” He entered the dark living room, found an oil lamp on a table, and got it going. “Not a bad joint, all things considered. Park yourself on that sofa over there.” He gestured with the automatic. “What did you mean about having something else to worry about?”

“You apparently don’t realize who those other men at the castle are,” she said. “One of them is Richard Henry Benson . . . he’s better known as the Avenger. And Cole Wilson is—”