The Day the World Ended Page 3

  I crossed to a glazed swing-door and went several paces along a passage leading to deserted service quarters.

  “Brian Woodville!”

  The Voice had followed me!

  Teeth hard clenched, I returned to the open door of my apartment—and just as I gained it:

  “Brian Woodville,” those measured tones continued, “you have two days. This is the second warning. You have two days. . ."

  CHAPTER III - FELSENWEIR

  1

  In the night hush—it was close upon four—I could hear the chattering Oos as it flowed in miniature cataracts but a few yards from my balcony.

  Nature had claimed her due. Not even that ghastly omen of the Second Warning had sufficed to keep me awake. Yet I was not destined to sleep in peace. Something had reached me, deeply though I slumbered, and I had awakened automatically—as is the way of one who has lived in wild places.

  Memory of a sound came over from sleep.

  Creaking.

  There was silence. No moon broke the blackness of the outer room, dimly visible from where I lay. Then, it came again—creaking.

  I turned, noiselessly.

  Someone—a vague silhouette—had stealthily raised the shutters!

  Slowly and cautiously, hoping my manoeuvres were unseen in the darkness of the alcove, I lifted myself upon an elbow. The figure was still there— stooping, I thought, and looking into the outer room. The shutter had been moved up fully three feet, by what means I could not imagine, but whilst it was high enough for cramped entrance, it was yet so low as to have hampered swift retreat.

  I wondered if I had made any sound in the moment of awakening: the intruder was so motionless —so silent. My finger rested, tautly, upon the trigger of the Colt.

  And as I lay there, watching, and awaiting the next development, this quietude became definitely horrible. I visualized that incredible thing with great gray-purplish wings, which had disappeared among the tombs.

  What was it, so silent out there on the balcony, which peered in? Did it crouch, animally, on all fours? Was it crawling toward me?

  Whoever, or whatever, was there gave no sign. Inch by inch I drew myself up, preparatory to springing out. My eyes were becoming used to the darkness. Where I had seen, or thought I had seen, the silhouette of a stooping figure, I now could detect vague half-lights. Was it possible that the intruder had withdrawn even as I lay watching?

  And now, being ready, I cast off the sheets and leaped on to the carpet. In nine strides I reached the window.

  The gap, three feet high, between floor and shutter was vacant. Nobody, nothing was there! I stumbled back to the switch beside the door. A swift flood of light came and I stood blinking toward the window.

  Then I recrossed, grasped the cords, and raised the central shutter fully.

  Barefooted, I stepped out on to the tiled balcony. A table and two chairs alone broke its emptiness. Right, three steps led down to a gravelled garden path.

  Someone moved . . . near me—below.

  I leaned over the stone balustrade.

  “Good-evening, sir,” said a gruff voice in German. “Has something disturbed you?”

  A wave of relief flowed over me hotly. There was nothing supernatural about this voice—and human companionship I welcomed.

  “Good-evening,” I replied. “Who are you?” “Night watchman, sir. I patrol the gardens every half hour. These ground-floor rooms are so easily entered, you see.”

  I was peering in the speaker’s direction. But he merely showed as a darker patch in the general gloom.

  “They are!” I agreed. “When did you arrive?” “At this moment.”

  “Someone raised my shutters a few minutes ago.” “That is impossible, sir, from outside, if they were fully closed.”

  “They were fully closed.”

  “Very strange, sir.”

  “But you saw no one?”

  “No one came round the south corner, sir—the way I arrived. Could you describe him?”

  “No. But I saw him—dimly.”

  “Nothing is disturbed?”

  “No.”

  “I will report the matter, sir. Will you please reclose your shutters?—and make sure they are safe.”

  “I shall certainly take your advice!”

  “Good-night, sir.”

  “Good-night.”

  I heard footsteps on the gravel path as I withdrew and began to pull on the cords which lowered the heavy shutter. I was so engaged when the steps, or so I supposed, returned along the path, and:

  “Hullo, there!” called a voice—but not the same voice!

  I desisted. The bottom of the shutter was still some five feet from the floor. I looked out. A beam of light shone blindingly into my eyes.

  “Hullo to you!” I cried. “What the devil’s up?”

  “This is what I am asking, sir,” the speaker replied. “I am the night watchman and it is my duty to ask.”

  I was astounded. Not only was this voice unlike the other, but the man spoke with a sort of military brusquerie which inclined me favourably toward him.

  Again I stepped out on the balcony.

  Standing plainly visible on the path below in the light from my windows was a square-jawed, iron-gray figure wearing a perfectly fitting uniform, with smart field boots. The Regal badge was on his shoulder straps and glittered in his cap.

  He stood at attention, looking up. His electric torch he held beside him like a rifle barrel at the order. We stared hard at one another, then:

  “Come in for a moment, night watchman,” I said, “I have something for you to report.”

  “Very good, sir.”

  A moment later, ducking his close-cropped head, for he was all of six feet, and carrying his cap, he joined me in my room. He stood at attention again.

  “Sit down,” I said. “Something very queer has happened here tonight.”

  “Thank you, sir.”

  The night watchman bowed stiffly, and sat down on the extreme edge of an uncomfortable chair. As his unflinching regard met mine:

  “Is there another watchman on duty in the gardens?” I asked.

  “At four o’clock, sir, I am relieved.”

  “No one else is on duty now?”

  “No one—outside the hotel. There are two men on duty inside.”

  “Then listen to what I am going to tell you,” said I, “and explain it if you can.”

  As briefly as possible I outlined what had passed, and finally:

  “The man impersonating you,” I concluded, “was probably the same who raised my shutter.”

  “Very little doubt of it, sir. He didn’t know how much you could see. He slipped to the nearest cover and waited. Allow me to examine the shutter.”

  He rose stiffly, crossed and tested the apparatus; then:

  “It does not lock,” he reported. “There is some fault. This man must have known of it.”

  “But why did he speak to me?”

  “To find out if you could identify him.”

  “Very daring.”

  “I agree with you, sir. I must report this. A dangerous man is evidently about the hotel.”

  There was a bottle of Pilsener on the writing table, so, taking it up:

  “A glass of beer?” I suggested.

  The night watchman immediately sprang to attention.

  “Thank you, sir. But contrary to orders.”

  One might have replied, “Nobody will be the wiser,” or “What does it matter?” But, looking into hard blue eyes, I said:

  “You are an old soldier?”

  “I had the honour of being a sergeant in the Prussian Guard, sir.”

  As I had “had the honour of being” a lieutenant in the Coldstream Guards, the situation did not lack drama, or comedy. But never a ghost of a smile disturbed the speaker’s grim lips.

  “Orders are orders,” said I, and put the bottle down. “Good-night, Sergeant.”

  “Thank you, sir,” he replied, and clicked his h
eels. “Good-night, sir.”

  He turned smartly, ducked his head, and went out under the half-raised shutter. I heard his regular footsteps grow faint upon gravel paths.

  If discipline could have conquered Europe, I reflected, then today Europe had certainly been one vast German Empire. I had never before met a night worker who could decline a bottle of beer at four o’clock in the morning!

  My shutters were as safe as I could make them from outside interference when I turned in again; and my sleep was not disturbed a second time.

  2

  I breakfasted on the balcony, as was my custom, watching early promenaders in wooded paths beside the tiny river and trying to reconcile the morning beauty of this sheltered valley with that nightly terror of the Voice.

  “You have two days . .

  Already, I regretted having confided so much of the facts respecting my nocturnal visitor to the watchman. I had on my breakfast table a note from the management respectfully requesting an interview.

  As I poured out a second cup of coffee and stared in the direction of Lichtenthaler Allee, I saw a slim figure moving through the trees with peculiar grace. That proud, slender body could belong to no one but Mme. Yburg. I was not mistaken. And she was coming toward the hotel.

  Ideas—fantastic, horrible—entered my mind. I flogged my memory for details of the shape I had seen, or thought I had seen, on this very balcony in the night. The man, the man who had spoken to me out of the shadows, might have been no more than an accomplice—his task to cover the retreat of . . . the other!

  She saw me presently, waved her hand, and went on to where a bridge spanned the stream. I was lighting a cigarette when she came round an angle of the hotel and walked along a gravel path to the balcony.

  “Good-morning," I said. “You don't look as though you had had a late night."

  “I didn't," she replied, and tapped at the gravel with a light stick which she carried. “I was so terribly bored! I escaped. It was mean of you to desert me."

  I met the glance of her unfathomable eyes. They were slightly oblique, which always defeats me.

  “What could I do? Mr. Kluster is a most alarming dragon."

  “No." She was watching me all the time and her gaze was disconcerting. “I had to be victimized, I suppose. What are you doing with yourself today?"

  Now, this seemingly normal inquiry held for me a sinister meaning. I had been afoot early, and I had obtained in the town a handbook which dealt with local history. It lay before me now. Particularly, I had sought for information respecting the older tombs in the cemetery. The shopman had been able to help me and to augment the facts.

  I had learned from this valuable handbook that the last of the once powerful Felsenweir family was buried approximately at the spot where that winged horror had alighted. The cypress-shadowed mausoleum which I had approached was in fact the family vault of the Felsenweirs. Their great hold in the hills was today a ruin and all but inaccessible.

  “There are strange stories about Felsenweir Castle,” the salesman had told me.

  He was a Dutchman and did not display the extraordinary reticence upon the subject of the Black Forest “vampires” which hitherto I had met with. “Anything to do with recent rumours?”

  The man’s light blue eyes had lighted up. “Absolutely. The poor fellow who was found dead in the forest lay on the borders of the Felsenweir woods. The giant bat you may have heard about was seen in the same neighbourhood.”

  Putting two and two together, and studying an excellent map which I had obtained from my informant, I had arrived at the conclusion that a nearer view of Felsenweir was indicated. Approach to the castle ruins was next to impossible, I was told. The property was held by a trust and the surrounding woods were strictly private.

  But I had made a plan, and now:

  “What are you doing with yourself today?” Mme. Yburg asked.

  “I shall be busy all the morning,” I replied. “But you would make me very happy if you would join me for tea at the Casino.”

  She lowered her eyes and bit her lip meditatively. Her pale, clearly chiselled features were Greek in purity; but I thought that the little teeth were terribly white.

  “I should love to,” she replied. “But if I’m late —after five, I mean—you won’t give me up?”

  “Certainly not. I may be late myself.”

  3

  In the office of the management I confirmed the report made by the Prussian watchman. There were polite regrets—masking incredulity, I rather fancied. But the fastenings of my shutter should certainly be looked to.

  At about half-past ten on a perfect morning I set out. My Zeiss glasses I had stuffed into a pocket of my coat as I had no desire to advertise my intentions. Yet a dreadful sense of futility was growing hourly more oppressive.

  The presence of a pistol on my hip no longer gave any feeling of security. One cannot shoot a Voice. I was watched, day and night: the fact was unmistakable. But although the watchers clearly possessed unusual, indeed superhuman, powers, I could not afford to suppose that they were infallible. To do so would be to acknowledge defeat. Some, at least, of my enemies were human enough; and I classified the chief suspects thus:

  (A) Mme. Yburg

  (B) Aldous P. Kluster

  (C) M. Paul

  If the men were victims of the woman or voluntary accomplices, I had yet to learn. But, until more data came into my possession, my only safe course was to look upon all three as active opponents of my mission.

  In the lobby of the hotel I was confronted by a dazzling spectacle—a man arrayed in extravagant plus-fours, with really unique stockings. His tie was in harmony with his stockings but in harmony with nothing else. He wore a startling pull-over. Black hair, gray at the temples, was brushed straight back from a fine, pale brow. The handsome, cleanshaven face was dominated by laughing but penetrating eyes.

  “My dear Mr. Woodville!” cried M. Paul—for he it was—“may I hope that you are not engaged?”

  “Very sorry,” I replied. “But I’m afraid I am engaged until dinner time.”

  “Ah!” cried the Frenchman. “But it is a shame! I am disconsolate. But dinner—yes! You will dine with me ? ”

  “With pleasure.”

  “Good. Then we meet in the bar at half after six-

  “Say, a quarter to seven.”

  “Half six to quarter seven—for cocktails?”

  “Delighted.”

  Presently, I got on my way again. As I came out into the street, I ran into Mr. Kluster, who was standing by the hotel entrance.

  “Hullo!” said he, looking me up and down, “all set for a picnic?”

  “Not exactly,” I answered shortly.

  “Exploring the forest?”

  “Something of the sort,” I called back; for I had scarcely checked my footsteps, so resentful was I of this man's would-be facetious remarks.

  But, already, I had gathered food for reflection. It might be no more than a series of coincidences: yet the fact remained that every suspect on my list had challenged me in some way regarding my plans for that day.

  CHAPTER IV - THE DEVIL’S ELBOW I

  1

  Taking all things into consideration, I doubted if it were possible for me to cover my tracks. A conviction was growing that I had to do with enemies whose methods of observation left me no means of countering.

  The facts underlying all this mystery I had yet to learn. Upon what astounding intrigue had I innocently blundered? But I was now certain that these facts were of a character which would not bear light of day. The winged horror of the cemetery definitely defied conjecture. It was supernormal. The Voice formed a complement to it. But my midnight visitor, who imitated night watchmen, was a tangible opponent with whom one might hope to come to grips. Mme. Yburg. . . .?

  If there were vampires in the Black Forest, then certainly they had human accomplices—and clever ones. But with these, at least, I could deal.

  I made several calls in the
town, some of them necessary and others mere red herrings. On coming out from each of the offices and shops, I assured myself that none of the suspects, A, B, or C, was in sight. Presently, leaving the Bank, I turned sharply right and set out upon the real business of the day.

  My plans from this moment onward included avoidance of spots in which I was likely to meet acquaintances. A study of the map had enabled me to lay a safe course. Once clear of the outskirts of the town, I counted myself moderately safe from ordinary espionage.

  This route lay up climbing streets, in which the houses stood upon most various elevations. Whereas one would be based upon the level, the next might equally well be upraised upon so high a rocky foundation that its porch overlooked the roof of a neighbour.

  Flowers there were everywhere: set in window boxes, lining porches, bordering long flights of steps leading up to the more elevated sites, crowding the forecourts of those houses which opened directly on to the pavement.

  The byways of the town are very quiet. And as I mounted ever nearer to the forest, it became less and less possible that I should be tracked without my knowledge. I took frequent occasion to pause and glance around me, also back and downward upon the route below.

  Not once did I detect a follower—a fact which, in view of what happened later, is noteworthy, being a sidelight upon the methods of a very extraordinary man.

  Once really clear of the town, I took fewer precautions. For a mile and a half my way was along woodland roads where travellers were rare.

  At a point selected earlier that morning, a car awaited me. I had chosen the man with care. As a result of conversation with the Dutch bookseller and a close study of my map, I had come to the conclusion that there was only one coign of vantage from which I might hope to command a view of Felsenweir. (In this, by the way, I was wrong.) Part of the route was possible by car; the last half mile merely a forest path.

  My purpose was secretly to study the ruins, closely and for a considerable time, with a view to learning if they were inhabited. And, at the moment of joining the car at the place appointed, a conviction seized me that my well-laid schemes had gone “a-gley”.