Chapter XI: Book III: The Penalty (3)

"I agree with you," laughed Captain Francis Newcombe coolly; "but, as it happens, it's low tide now and the water is out beyond where we are going--which may offer an alternative solution to old Marlin's escape. However, Runnells, that's not what we are looking for--we're looking for a keyhole."

He led the way forward, his flashlight playing on the big central concrete pier, some eight feet square, in front of him. He was chuckling quietly to himself. It being established that the old maniac's hiding place was here under the boathouse, a hiding place that was opened by a key, and that, except at low tide, was inaccessible, the precise location of that hiding place became obvious even to a child. The row of little piers that supported the structure at the sides and front were all individually too small to be _hollow_--and there was absolutely nothing else here except the big centre support.

With Runnells beside him now, he began to examine this centre pier under the ray of his flashlight. He walked once completely around it, making a quick, preliminary examination. The pier was some six or seven feet in height, and the concrete construction was reinforced with massive iron bands placed both horizontally and transversely between two and three feet apart, the small squares thus formed giving a sort of checkerboard effect to the mass. The lower portion was green with sea-slime. There was no apparent evidence of any opening.

But Captain Francis Newcombe had not expected that there would be.

"Look for a little hole, Runnells," he said. "Anything, for instance, that might appear to be no more than a _fault_ in the concrete. And look particularly above high water mark. The opening is below because the old man could only get in at low tide; but the keyhole is more likely to be above out of the reach of the water because it must be watertight inside."

"Yes," said Runnells.

They made a second circuit of the pier, but carefully now, searching minutely over every inch of surface. It took a long time--a very long time--a quarter of an hour--a half hour--more.

And still there was no sign of either keyhole or opening.

"Strike me pink!" grumbled Runnells. "It looks like it was sticking to us to-night! This is what I calls rotten luck!"

"And I was thinking that it was excellent--even beyond expectations, Runnells," said Captain Francis Newcombe smoothly. "The old man has done his work so well that it is certain no one would _stumble_ on it. Therefore, when we get away, we do so with the absolute knowledge that an _empty_ hiding place will never be discovered. You follow that, don't you, Runnells? No one except you and I will know that the money was ever found--or taken."

"Yes," said Runnells gruffly; "but we ain't got it yet. And we must have been at it a good hour already--and the tide's coming back in now."

"Quite so!" said Captain Francis Newcombe evenly. "But if we don't get it to-night, there is to-morrow night--and the night after that again. There are always the woods, and your ability as a thief guarantees us plenty to eat. Meanwhile, we'll stick to this side here fronting the sea--it's the logical place--one couldn't be seen even from under the verandah back there. Go over every bit of the iron work now."

Another quarter of an hour passed in silence--save for the lap of the water that, with the tide on the turn now, had crept up almost to the base of the pier. The flashlight moved slowly up and down and to right and left as the two men crouched there, bent forward, their fingers, augmenting the sense of sight, feeling over the surface of the cement and iron that here was barnacle-coated, and there covered with festoons of the green slime.

"It's no good!" said Runnells pessimistically at last. "Let's try around on another side, and get out of the water--I'm standing in it now."

"It's here--and nowhere else," said Captain Francis Newcombe doggedly. "And, furthermore, I'm certain it's one of these squares inside the intersecting pieces of iron. It would be just big enough to allow a man to crawl in and out--and not too big or too heavy for one man to handle alone. It can't be anything else. Whatever's here the old man made himself--no one helped him, understand, Runnells? His secret wouldn't be worth anything in that case. Go on--hunt!"

But Runnells, instead, had suddenly straightened up.

"I thought I heard something out there like--like a low splashing," he said tensely.

Captain Francis Newcombe paid no heed. He was laughing, low, jubilantly, triumphantly.

"I've got it, Runnells!" he cried. "Here's a bit of the iron down here that moves to one side--just a little piece. Look! And the keyhole underneath! I was wrong about the keyhole being above high water--it isn't, or anywhere near it--but we'll see how the contrivance works." He thrust his hand into his pocket, brought out the bronze key, fitted it quickly into the keyhole, and turned it. A faint _click_ answered him. "Push, Runnells, on that square just above the water--it's bound to swing inward--these iron strips hide the joints."

But he did not wait for Runnells to obey his injunction. He snatched the key out of the lock again, and even as he saw the piece of iron swing back into place covering the keyhole, he was pushing against the concrete slab himself. It swung back and inward from its upper edge with a sort of oscillating movement. His flashlight bored into the opening. Clever! The old maniac had had the cunning of--a maniac! It was quite clear. Old Marlin had cut away the square and fitted it with a new block--yes, he could see!--the interior would, of course, have been flooded at high water while the old madman was preparing the new block, but that made no difference--the place would always empty itself at low tide again because the flooring, or base, in there was on the same level as the lower edge of the opening--and it would be when it was empty of water, naturally, that the new block would be fitted into place--and thereafter it would remain empty.

He was crawling through the opening now--the weight of the swinging block causing it to press against his shoulders, but giving way easily before his advance. There was just room to squeeze through. Very ingenious! The walls were a good foot to a foot and a half thick. The lock-bar worked through the side of the pier wall into the _middle_ of the edge of the movable block so no water could get in that way; and the block when closed fitted in a series of gaskets against the inside of the iron bands that reinforced the outside of the pier, which latter, overlapping the edges of the block, hid any indication of an entrance from view. It must have taken the old fool weeks! Again Captain Francis Newcombe laughed. His head and shoulders were through now, and, with his flashlight's ray flooding the interior, he could see that--

A cry, sudden, wild, terror-stricken, from Runnells reached him.

"Quick!" Runnells cried frantically. "For the love of Gawd make room for me--the _thing's_ here! Quick! Quick! Let me get in!"

The _thing_! In a flash Captain Francis Newcombe wriggled the rest of his body through the opening, and, holding back the movable block, sent his flashlight's ray streaming out through the opening. It lighted up Runnells' face, contorted with fear, ashen to the lips, as the man came plunging along; and out beyond, it played on a waving, sinuous tentacle, another and another, groping, snatching, feeling--and from out of the midst of these a revolting pair of eyes, and a beak, horny, monstrous, in shape like a parrot's beak.

With a gasp Runnells came through, sprawling on the floor.

The movable block swung back into place with a little _click_.

Captain Francis Newcombe shrugged his shoulders.

"A bit of a close shave, Runnells," he said. "I fancy you're right--last night was enough to his liking to bring the brute back again. Rather a bore, too! Unless he moves off again, he's got us penned up until low water."

"That'll be twelve hours," whimpered Runnells; "and it'll be daylight then--and another twelve before we could get out when it's dark."

Captain Francis Newcombe shrugged his shoulders again. His flashlight was playing around him. The hollow space here inside the pier was perhaps six feet square, and solid concrete, top, bottom and sides. This fact he absorbed subconsciously, as he reached quickly out now to a little shelf that had been built out from one side of the wall. There was a half burned candle here and some matches, and, lying beside these, a package wrapped in oiled-silk. He struck a match, lighted the candle, switched off his flashlight, thrust it into his pocket, and snatched up the package. An instant more and he had unwrapped it.

And unholy laughter came, and the soul of the man rocked with it. It rose and fell, hollow and muffled in the little space where there was scarcely room for the two men to move without jostling one another. _The money_! He had won! It was his! Locke--Paul Cremarre--Scotland Yard--ha, ha! Well, they had pitted themselves against Shadow Varne--and Shadow Varne had never yet failed to get what he went after, in spite of man, or God, or devil--and he had not failed now--and he never would fail!

He was tossing the bundles of bank notes from hand to hand with boastful glee.

"This'll buck you up a bit, Runnells!" he laughed. "You'll be well paid for waiting even if it has to be until to-morrow night--eh, what?"

Runnells, on his feet now, a sudden red of avarice burning in his cheeks, grabbed at one of the bundles, and began to fondle the notes with eager fingers.

"Gawd!" he croaked hoarsely. "Thousand-dollar notes! Strike me pink! Gawd!"

Captain Francis Newcombe was still laughing, but his eyes had narrowed now as, watching Runnells, there came a sudden thought. Would he _need_ Runnells any more? There wasn't any motor boat to run--but it was a long way in a rowboat for one man over to the mainland. _Here_ in the old maniac's hiding place--ideal--and a bit of irony in it too--delicious irony! Well, it did not require _instant_ decision. Meanwhile it seemed to be strangely oppressive in here in the confined space.

"It's stuffy in here, Runnells," he said. "Pull that door, or block, or whatever you like to call it, back a crack and freshen the place up."

The "door" was fitted with a light brass handle, similar to a handle used on a bureau drawer. Runnells stooped, still clutching a bundle of bank notes in one hand, and gave the handle a careless pull. The block did not move. He gave the handle a vicious tug then, but still with the same result. He dropped the bundle of bank notes, and used both hands. The block did not yield.

"I can't move the damned thing," he snarled. "It seems to be locked."

Captain Francis Newcombe's voice was suddenly cold and hard.

"Try again!" he said. "Here, I'll help you! Take your coat off and run the sleeve, the two of them if you can, through the handle so we can both get hold."

Runnells obeyed.

Both men pulled.

The handle broke away from its fastenings. The block did not move.

"It's locked, I tell you," panted Runnells. "Haven't you got the key?"

"Yes," said Captain Francis Newcombe quietly; "but there's no hidden keyhole here. It's locked from the outside--a spring lock. I remember now hearing it click. The old man would set it so that he could get out, of course, every time he entered. We didn't."

"Gawd!" said Runnells thickly. "What're we going to do?"

Captain Francis Newcombe's eyes studied the four walls and roof. He spoke more to himself than Runnells.

"Say, six by six by six," he said. "Roughly, two hundred cubic feet. Watertight--hermetically sealed--no air except what's in here now. One hundred cubic feet per man--short work--very short."

"What do you mean?" whispered Runnells with whitening face--and coughed.

"I mean that brute out there, if it still is out there, counts for nothing now," said Captain Francis Newcombe steadily. "We could at least _fight_ that--we can't fight suffocation. I'd say a very few minutes, Runnells, before we're groggy if we can't get air--I don't know how long the rest of it will take."

Runnells screamed. His face grey, beads of sweat suddenly spurting from his forehead, he flung himself against the cement "door," clawing with his finger nails, where no finger nails could grip, around the edges of the block. And then in maniacal frenzy he attacked the wall with his pocketknife.

The blades broke.

Captain Francis Newcombe, with a queer, set smile, drew his revolver, and, holding the muzzle close to the wall, fired. The bullet made little impression. With the muzzle now held over the same spot he fired again.

And now he choked and coughed a little.

The acrid fumes helped to vitiate the air.

"You're making it worse--my Gawd, you're making it worse!" shrieked Runnells. "I can't breathe that stuff into me."

"I prefer to be doing something, even if it's pretty well a foregone conclusion that it's useless--than sit on the floor and _wait_," Captain Francis Newcombe answered. "A bullet probably hasn't the ghost of a chance of going through--but if a bullet won't, nothing that we have got to work with will."

The lighted candle on the shelf began to flicker.

Captain Francis Newcombe fired again--once more--and yet still another shot.

Runnells moaned and staggered. He went to the floor, his fists beating at the wall until they bled.

Captain Francis Newcombe watched the candle.

The minutes passed.

The light grew dim.

Captain Francis Newcombe sat down on the floor.

A strange coughing, a mingling of choking sounds.

The candle flickered and went out.

Captain Francis Newcombe spoke. There was something debonair in his voice in spite of its laboured utterance:

"The house divided, Runnells. Do you remember that night in the thicket?"

There was no answer.

Again Captain Francis Newcombe spoke:

"I've saved two shots. Will you have one, Runnells? Suffocation's a rotten way to go out."

"_No!_" Runnells screamed. "No, no--my Gawd--no!"

Captain Francis Newcombe's laugh was choked and gasping.

"You always were a stinking coward, Runnells," he said. "Well, suit yourself."

The tongue flame of a revolver lanced through the blackness.

Runnells screamed and screamed again. Sprawling on the floor, his hand fell upon the package of bank notes he had dropped there. He tore at them now in his raving, tore them to pieces, tore and tore and tore--and screamed.

But presently there was no sound in the old madman's hiding place.

The tides are tongueless. They came and went, and kept their secret. In England, Scotland Yard sought diligently for the murderer of Sir Harris Greaves; and on a little island of the Florida Keys long search was made for a great sum of money that an old madman in his demented folly had hidden--but neither the one nor the other was ever found.

THE END

BY FRANK L. PACKARD

THE FOUR STRAGGLERS
JIMMIE DALE AND THE PHANTOM CLUE
DOORS OF THE NIGHT
PAWNED
THE WHITE MOLL
FROM NOW ON
THE NIGHT OPERATOR
THE FURTHER ADVENTURES OF JIMMIE DALE
THE ADVENTURES OF JIMMIE DALE
THE WIRE DEVILS
THE SIN THAT WAS HIS
THE BELOVED TRAITOR
GREATER LOVE HATH NO MAN
THE MIRACLE MAN

NEW YORK

GEORGE H. DORAN COMPANY