The Mystery - Stewart Edward White and Samuel Hopkins Adams
"Where?"
"On the north shore, about a mile to the east of here."
"Then we'll cut directly across."
"Beg your pardon, sir," put in Congdon, "but I don't think we can make it
from this side, sir."
"Why not?"
"No beach, sir, and the cliff's like the side of a ship. Looks to be deep
water right into the cave's mouth."
"Back to the boat, then. Bring that flag along."
The descent was swift, at times reckless, but the party embarked without
accident. Soon they were forging through the water at racing speed, the
boat leaping to the impulsion of the sailorman's strongest motives,
curiosity and the hope of saving a life.
IV
THE TWIN SLABS
Within half an hour the gig had reached the mouth of the cave. As the
coxswain had predicted, the seas ran into the lofty entrance. Elsewhere
the surf fell whitely, but through the arch the waves rolled unbroken into
a heavy stillness. Only as the boat hovered for a moment at the face of
the cliff could the exploring party hear, far within, the hollow boom that
told of breakers on a distant, subterranean beach.
"Run her in easy," came the captain's order. "Keep a sharp lookout for
hidden rocks."
To the whispering plash of the oars they moved from sunlight into
twilight, from twilight into darkness. Of a sudden the oars jerked
convulsively. A great roar had broken upon the ears of the sailors; the
invisible roof above them, the water heaving beneath them, the walls that
hemmed them in, called, with a multiplication of resonance, upon the name
of Darrow. The boat quivered with the start of its occupants. Then one or
two laughed weakly as they realised that what they had heard was no
supernatural voice. It was the captain hailing for the marooned man.
No vocal answer came. But an indeterminable space away they could hear a
low splash followed by a second and a third. Something coughed weakly in
front and to the right. Trendon's hand went to his revolver. The men sat,
stiffened. One of them swore, in a whisper, and the oath came back upon
them, echoing the name of the Saviour in hideous sibilance.
"Silence in the boat," said the captain, in such buoyant tones that the
men braced themselves against the expected peril.
"Light the lantern and pass it to me," came the order. "Keep below the
gunwale, men."
As the match spluttered: "Do you see something, a few rods to port?" asked
the captain in Trendon's ear.
"Pair of green lights," said Trendon. "Eyes. _Seals!_"
"_Seals! Seals! Seals_!" shouted the walls, for the surgeon had suddenly
released his voice. And as the mockery boomed, the green lights
disappeared and there was more splashing from the distance. The crew sat
up again.
The lantern spread its radiance. It was reflected from battlements of
fairy beauty. Everywhere the walls were set, as with gems, in broad wales
of varied and vivid hues. Dazzled at first, the explorers soon were able
to discern the general nature of the subterranean world which they had
entered. In most places the walls rose sheer and unscaleable from the
water. In others, turretted rocks thrust their gleaming crags upward. Over
to starboard a little beach shone with Quaker greyness in that spectacular
display. The end of the cavern was still beyond the area of light.
"Must have been a swimmer to get in here," commented Trendon, glancing at
the walls.
"Unless he had a boat," said the captain. "But why doesn't he answer?"
"Better try again. No telling how much more there is of this."
The surgeon raised his ponderous bellow, and the cave roared again with
the summons. Silence, formidable and unbroken, succeeded.
"House to house search is now in order," he said. "Must be in here
somewhere--unless the seals got him."
Cautiously the boat moved forward. Once she grazed on a half submerged
rock. Again a tiny islet loomed before her. Scattered bones glistened on
the rocky shore, but they were not human relics. Occasional beaches
tempted a landing, but all of these led back to precipitous cliffs except
one, from the side of which opened two small caves. Into the first the
lantern cast its glare, revealing emptiness, for the arch was wide and the
cave shallow. The entrance to the other was so narrow as to send a visitor
to his knees. But inside it seemed to open out. Moreover, there were fish
bones at the entrance. The captain, the surgeon, and Congdon, the
coxswain, landed. Captain Parkinson reached the spot first. Stooping, he
thrust his head in at the orifice. A sharp exclamation broke from him. He
rose to his feet, turning a contorted face to the others.
"Poisonous," he cried.
"More volcano," said Trendon. He bent to the black hole and sniffed
cautiously.
"I'll go in, sir," volunteered Congdon. "I've had fire-practice."
"My business," said Trendon, briefly. "Decomposition; unpleasant, but not
dangerous."
Pushing the lantern before him, he wormed his way until the light was
blotted out. Presently it shone forth from the funnel, showing that the
explorer had reached the inner open space. Captain Parkinson dropped down
and peered in, but the evil odour was too much for him. He retired,
gagging and coughing. Trendon was gone for what seemed an interminable
time. His superior officer fidgeted uneasily. At last he could stand it no
longer.
"Dr. Trendon, are you all right?" he shouted.
"Yup," answered a choked voice. "Cubbing oud dow."
Again the funnel was darkened. A pair of feet appeared; then the surgeon's
chunky trunk, his head, and the lantern. Once, twice, and thrice he
inhaled deeply.
"Phew!" he gasped. "Thought I was tough, but--Phee-ee-ee-ew!"
"Did you find--"
"No, sir. Not Darrow. Only a poor devil of a seal that crawled in there to
die."
The exploration continued. Half a mile, as they estimated, from the open,
they reached a narrow beach, shut off by a perpendicular wall of rock.
Skirting this, they returned on the other side, minutely examining every
possible crevice. When they again reached the light of day, they had
arrived at the certain conclusion that no living man was within those
walls.
"Would a corpse rise to the surface soon in waters such as these, Dr.
Trendon?" asked the captain.
"Might, sir. Might not. No telling that."
The captain ruminated. Then he beat his fist on his knee.
"The other cave!"
"What other cave?" asked the surgeon.
"The cave where they killed the seals."
"Surely!" exclaimed Trendon. "Wait, though. Didn't Slade say it was
between here and the point?"
"Yes. Beyond the small beach."
"No cave there," declared the surgeon positively.
"There must be. Congdon, did you see an opening anywhere in the cliff as
we came along?"
"No, sir. This is the only one, sir."
"We'll see about that," said the captain, grimly. "Head her about. Skirt
the shore as near the breakers as you safely can."
The gig retraced its journey.
"There's the beach, as Slade described it," said Captain Parkinson, as
they came abreast of the little reach of sand.
"And what are those two bird-roosts on it?" asked Trendon. "See 'em? Dead
against that patch of shore-weed."
"Bits of wreckage fixed in the sand."
"Don't think so, sir. Too well matched."
"We have no time to settle the matter now," said the captain impatiently.
"We must find that cave, if it is to be found."
Hovering just outside the final drag of the surf, under the skilful
guidance of Congdon, the boat moved slowly along the line of beach to the
line of cliff. All was open as the day. The blazing sun picked out each
detail of jut and hollow. Evidently the poisonous vapours from the volcano
had not spread their blight here, for the face of the precipice was bright
with many flowers. So close in moved the boat that its occupants could
even see butterflies fluttering above the bloom. But that which their
eager eyes sought was still denied them. No opening offered in that
smiling cliff-side. Not by so much as would admit a terrier did the mass
of rock and rubble gape.
"And Slade described the cave as big enough to ram the _Wolverine_ into,"
muttered Trendon.
Up to the point of the headland, and back, passed the boat. Blank
disappointment was the result.
"What is your opinion now, Dr. Trendon?" asked the captain of the older
man.
"Don't know, sir," answered the surgeon hopelessly. "Looks as if the cave
might have been a hallucination."
"I shall have something to say to Mr. Slade on our return," said the
captain crisply. "If the cave was an hallucination, as you suggest, the
seal-murder was fiction."
"Looks so," agreed the other.
"And the murder of the captain. How about that?"
"And the mutiny of the men," added the surgeon.
"And the killing of the doctor. Your patient seems to be a romantic
genius."
"And the escape of Darrow. Hold hard," quoth Trendon. "Darrow's no
romance. Nothing fictional about the flag and ledger."
"True enough," said the captain, and fell to consideration.
"Anyway," said Trendon vigorously, "I'd like to have a look at those bird-
roosts. Mighty like signposts, to my mind."
"Very well," said the captain. "It'll cost us only a wetting. Run her in,
Congdon."
With all the coxswain's skill, and the oarsmen's technique, the passage of
the surf was a lively one, and little driblets of water marked the trail
of the officers as they shuffled up the beach.
The two slabs stood less than fifty yards beyond high water tide. Nearing
them, the visitors saw that each marked a mound, but not until they were
close up could they read the neat carving on the first. It ran as follows:
_Here lies_
SOLOMON ANDERSON
_alias_
HANDY SOLOMON
_who murdered his employer,
his captain, and his shipmates,
and was found, dead
of his deserts, on these shores,
June 5, 1904.
This slab is erected as a
memento of admiring esteem
by
the last of his victims.
"And you can kiss the
Book on that."_
"Percy Darrow _fecit_," said the surgeon. "You can kiss the Book on
_that_, too."
"Then Slade was telling the truth!"
"Apparently. Seems good corroboration."
The captain turned to the other mound. Its slab was carved by the same
hand.
_Sacred to the memory of an
Ensign of the U. S. Navy,
whose body, washed upon this
coast, is here buried with all
reverence, by strange hands;
whose soul may God rest.
"The seas shall sing his
requiem." June the Sixth,
MXMIV._
"Billy Edwards," said the captain, very low.
He uncovered. The surgeon did likewise. So, for a space, they stood with
bared heads between the twin graves.
V
THE PINWHEEL VOLCANO
The surgeon spoke first.
"Another point," said he. "Darrow was alive within a few days."
Captain Parkinson turned slowly away from the grave. "You are right," he
said, with an effort. "Our business is with the living now. The dead must
wait."
"Hide and seek," growled Trendon. "If he's here why don't he show
himself?"
The other shook his head.
"Place is all trampled up with his footprints," said Trendon. "He's
plodded back and forth like a prisoner in a cell."
"The ledger," said the captain. "I'd forgotten it. That grave drove
everything else out of my mind."
"Bring the book here," called Trendon.
Congdon unwrapped it from his jacket and handed it to him. The sailors
cast curious glances at the two headstones.
"Mount guard over Mr. Edwards's grave," commanded the captain.
The coxswain saluted and gave an order. One of the sailors stepped forward
to the first mound.
"Not that one," rasped the officer. "The other."
The man saluted and moved on.
"With your permission, sir," said Trendon.
On a nod from his superior officer he opened the ledger and took up
Darrow's record.
"Here it is. Entry of June 3d."
"_Everything lovely. Schooner lost to sight. Query--to memory dear? Not
exactly. Though I shouldn't mind having her under orders for a few days.
Queer glow in the sky last night: if they've been investigating they may
have got what's coming to them. Volcano exhibiting fits of temper. Spouted
out considerable fire about nine o'clock. Quite spectacular, but no harm
done. Can foresee short rations of tobacco. Lava in valley still too hot
for comfort. No sign of Dr. Schermerhorn. Still sleep on beach_.
"Not much there," sniffed Trendon. "Go on," said the captain.
"_June 3. Evening. Thick and squally weather again. Local atmospheric
conditions seem upset. Volcano still leading strenuous life. Climbed the
headland this afternoon. Wind very shifty. Got an occasional whiff of
volcanic output. One in particular would have sent a skunk to the camphor
bottle. No living on the headland. Will explore cave to-morrow with a view
to domicile. Have come down to an allowance of seven cigarettes per diem.
"June 4. Explored cave to-day. Full of dead seals. Not only dead, but all
bitten and cut to pieces. Must have been lively doings in Seal-Town. Not
much choice between air in the cave and vapours from the volcano. Barring
seals, everything suitable for light housekeeping, such as mine. Undertook
to clean house. Dragged late lamented out into the water. Some sank and
were swept away by the sea-puss. Others, I regret to say, floated. Found
trickle of fresh water in depth of cave, and little sand-ledge to sleep
on. So far, so good: we may be 'appy yet. If only I had my cigarette
supply. Once heard a botanist say that leaves of the white shore-willow
made fair substitute for tobacco. Fair substitute for nux vomica! Would
like to interview said botanist_.
"The fellow is a tobacco maniac," growled Trendon, feeling in his breast
pocket. "The devil," he cried, bringing forth an empty hand.
Silently the captain handed him a cigar. "Thank you, sir," he said,
lighted it, and continued reading.
"_June 5. Had a caller to-day. Climbed the headland this morning. Found
volcano taking a day off. Looking for sign of _Laughing Lass_, noticed
something heliographing to me from the waves beyond the reef. Seemed to be
metal. I guessed a tin can. Caught in the swirl, it rounded the cape, and
I came down to the shore to meet it. Halfway down the cliff I had a better
view. I saw it was not a tin can. There was a dark body under it, which
the waves were tossing about, and as the metal moved with the body, it
glinted in the sun. Suddenly it was borne in upon me that an arm was doing
the signalling, waving to me with a sprightly, even a jocular
friendliness. Then I saw what it really was. It was Handy Solomon and his
steel hook. He was riding quite high. Every now and again he would bow and
wave. He grounded gently on the sand beach. I planted him promptly. First,
however, I removed a bag of tobacco from his pocket. Poor stuff, and water
soaked, but still tobacco. Spent a quiet afternoon carving a headstone for
the dear departed. Pity it were that virtues so shining should be
uncommemorated. Idle as the speculation is, I wonder who my next visitor
will be. Thrackles, I hope. Evidently some of them have been playing the
part of Pandora. Spent last night in the cave. Air quite fresh.
"June 6. Saw the glow again last night."_
The surgeon paused in his reading. "That would be the night of the 5th:
the night before we picked her up empty."
"Yes," agreed Captain Parkinson. "That was the night Billy Edwards--Go
on."
"_Saw the glow again last night. Don't understand it. Once should have
been enough for them. This matter of hoarding tobacco may be a sad error.
If Old Spitfire keeps on the way she has to-day I shan't need much more.
It would be a raw jest to be burned or swallowed up with a month's supply
of unsmoked cigarettes on one. Cave getting shaky. Still, I think I'll
stick there. As between being burned alive and buried alive, I'm for the
respectable and time honoured fashion of interment. Bombardment was mostly
to the east to-day, but no telling when it may shift.
"June 7. This morning I found a body rolling in the surf. It was the body
of a young man, large and strongly built, dressed in the uniform of an
ensign of our navy. Surely a strange visitor to these shores! There was no
mark of identification upon him except a cigarette case graven with an
undecipherable monogram in Tiffany's most illegible style of arrow-headed
inscription. This I buried with him, and staked the grave with a
headboard. An officer and a gentleman, a youth of friendly ways and kindly
living, if one may judge by the face of the dead; and he comes by the same
end to the same goal as Handy Solomon. Why not? And why should one
philosophise in a book that will never be read? Hold on! Perhaps--just
perhaps--it may be read. The officer was not long dead. Ensigns of the U.
S. navy do not wander about untraversed waters alone. There must be a
warship somewhere in the vicinity. But why, then, an unburied officer
floating on the ocean? I will smoke upon this, luxuriously and
plentifully. (Later.) No use. I can't solve it. But one thing I do. I put
up a signal pole on the headland and cache this record under it this
afternoon. From day to day, with the kindly permission of the volcano, I
will add to it.... Bad doings by Old Spitfire. The cloud is coming down on
me. Also seems to be moving along the cliff. I will retire hastily to my
private estate in the cave_.
"That's all, except the scrawl on the last page," said Trendon. "Some
action of the volcano scared him off. He just had time to scrawl that last
message and drop the book into the cache. The question is, did he get back
alive?"
"I doubt it," said the captain. "We will search the headland for his
body."
"But the cave," insisted the surgeon. "We ought to have found some sign of
him there."
"Slade is the solution," said the captain. "We must ask him."
They put back to the ship. Barnett was anxiously awaiting them.
"Your patient has been in a bad way, Dr. Trendon," he said.
"What's wrong?" asked Trendon, frowning.
"He came up on deck, wild-eyed and staggering. There was a sheet of paper
in his hand which seemed to have some bearing on his trouble. When he
found you had gone to the island without him he began to rage like a
maniac. I had to have him carried down by force. In the rumpus the paper
disappeared. I assumed the responsibility of giving him an opiate."
"Quite right," approved Trendon. "I'll go down. Will you come with me,
sir?" he said to the captain.
They found Slade in profound slumber.
"Won't do to wake him now," growled Trendon. "Hello, what's here?"
Lying in the hollow of the sick man's right hand, where it had been
crushed to a ball, was a crumpled mass of tracing paper. Trendon smoothed
it out, peered at it and passed it to the captain.
"It's a sketch of an Indian arrow-head," he exclaimed in surprise, at the
first glance. "What are all these marks?"
"Map of the island," barked Trendon. "Look here."
The drawing was a fairly careful one, showing such geographical points as
had been of concern to the two-year inhabitants. There was the large
cavern, indicated as they had found it, and at a point between it and the
headland the legend, "Seal Cave."
"But it's wrong," cried Captain Parkinson, setting finger to the spot. "We
passed there twice. There's no opening."
"No guarantee that there may not have been," returned the other. "This
island has been considerably shaken up lately. Entrance may have been
closed by a landslide down the cliff. Noticed signs myself, but didn't
think of it in connection with the cave."
"That's work for Barnett, then," said the captain, brightening. "We'll
blow up the whole face of the cliff, if necessary, but we'll get at that
cave."
He hurried out. Order followed order, and soon the gig, with the captain,
Trendon, and the torpedo expert, was driving for the point marked "Seal
Cave" on the map over which they were bent.
VI
MR. DARROW RECEIVES
"You say the last entry is June 7th?" asked Barnett, as the boat entered
the light surf.
Trendon nodded.
"That was the night we saw the last glow, and the big burst from the
volcano, wasn't it?"
"Right."
"The island would have been badly shaken up."
"Not so violently but that the flag-pole stood," said the captain.
"That's true, sir. But there's been a good deal of volcanic gas going. The
man's been penned up for four days."
"Give the fellow a chance," growled Trendon. "Air may be all right in the
cave. Good water there, too. Says so himself. By Slade's account he's a
pretty capable citizen when it comes to looking after himself. Wouldn't
wonder if we'd find him fit as a fiddle."
"There was no clue to Ives and McGuire?" asked Barnett presently.
"None." It was the captain who answered.
The gig grated, and the tide being high, they waded to the base of the
cliff, Barnett carrying his precious explosives aloft in his arms.
"Here's the spot," said the captain. "See where the water goes in through
those crevices."
"Opening at the top, too," said Trendon.
He let out his bellow, roaring Darrow's name.
"I doubt if you could project your voice far into a cave thus blocked,"
said Captain Parkinson. "We'll try this."
He drew his revolver and fired. The men listened at the crevices of the
rock. No sound came from within.
"Your enterprise, Mr. Barnett," said the commander, with a gesture which
turned over the conduct of the affair to the torpedo expert.
Barnett examined the rocks with enthusiasm.
"Looks like moderately easy stuff," he observed. "See how the veins run.
You could almost blow a design to order in that."
"Yes; but how about bringing down the whole cave?"
"Oh, of course there's always an element of uncertainty when you're
dealing with high explosives," admitted the expert. "But unless I'm
mistaken, we can chop this out as neat as with an axe."
Dropping his load of cartridges carelessly upon a flat rock which
projected from the water, he busied himself in a search along the face of
the cliff. Presently, with an "Ah," of satisfaction, he climbed toward a
hand's breadth of platform where grew a patch of purple flowers.
"Throw me up a knife, somebody," he called.
"Take notice," said Trendon, good-naturedly, "that I'm the botanist of
this expedition."
"Oh, you can have the flowers. All I want is what they grow in."
Loosening a handful of the dry soil, he brought it down and laid it with
the explosives. Next he called one of the sailors to "boost" him, and was
soon perched on the flat slant of a huge rock which formed, as it were,
the keystone to the blockade.
"Let's see," he ruminated. "We want a slow charge for this. One that will
exert a widespread pressure without much shattering force. The No. 3, I
think."
"How is that, Mr. Barnett?" asked the captain, with lively interest.
"You see, sir," returned the demonstrator, perched high, like a sculptor
at work on some heroic masterpiece, "what we want is to split off this
rock." He patted the flank of the huge slab. "There's a lovely vein
running at an angle inward from where I sit. Split that through, and the
rock should roll, of its own weight, away from the entrance. It's held
only by the upper projection that runs under the arch here."
"Neat programme," commented Trendon, with a tinge of sardonic scepticism.
"Wait and see," retorted Barnett blithely, for he was in his element now.
"I'll appoint you my assistant. Just toss me up that cartridge: the third
one on the left."
The surgeon recoiled.
"Supposing you don't catch it?"
"Well, supposing I don't."
"It's dynamite, isn't it?"
"Something of the same nature. Joveite, it's called."
Still the surgeon stared at him. Barnett laughed.
"Oh, you've got the high explosives superstition," he said lightly.
"Dynamite don't go off as easy as people think. You could drop that stuff
from the cliffhead without danger. Have I got to come down for it?"
With a wry face Trendon tossed up the package. It was deftly caught.
"Now wet that dirt well. Put it in the canvas bag yonder, and send one of
the men up with it. I'm going to make a mud pie."
Breaking the package open, he spread the yellow powder in a slightly
curving line along the rock. With the mud he capped this over, forming a
little arched roof.
"To keep it from blowing away," surmised Trendon.
"No; to make it blow down instead of blowing up."
"Oh, rot!" returned the downright surgeon. "That pound of dirt won't make
the shadow of a feather's difference."
"Won't it!" retorted the other. "Curious thing about high explosives. A
mud-cap will hold down the force as well as a ton of rock. Wait and see
what happens to the rock beneath."
He slid off his perch into the ankle-deep water and waded out to the boat.
Here he burrowed for a moment, presently emerging with a box. This he
carried gingerly to a convenient rock and opened. First he lifted out some
soft padding. A small tin box honey-combed inside came to light. With
infinite precaution Barnett picked out an object that looked like a 22-
calibre short cartridge, wadded some cotton batten in his hand, set the
thing in the wadding, laid it on the rock, carefully returned the small
box to the large box and the large box to the boat, took up the cartridge
again and waded back to the cliff. They watched him in silence.