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Roy Glashan's Library
Non sibi sed omnibus
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Terror Tales, Jan-Feb 1937. with "Governess For The Mad"
Deep in her quaking heart a tiny voice warned Jessica Smith not to accept that position, but she had to, because hunger gnawed her vitals. So she became schoolmistress to a pack of slavering idiots. And in the horrible classroom travesty that followed, there was a sane man who lusted for her young body—and a madman, who won her love!
Should the finger of madness touch your loved ones—consign them not to men like Doctor Dorn!
JESSICA SMITH felt the doctor's cold, professional gaze probe her from head to foot, lingeringly, without haste. The hot blood mantled her cheeks under that thorough inspection, knowing that he had omitted not the smallest detail—her clothes, worn and shabby beyond pretense; the thin pocket-book she held tightly clutched to her side; and the slim shapeliness of her legs.
Then he leaned back in his chair, pursed thick, red lips half hidden between a trim Vandyke and a glossy, pointed mustache. But his eyes did not leave the delicate swell of her bosom as he spoke. "You say, Miss Smith that you can furnish us with no satisfactory references as to your experience?" His voice was consolatory, soothing—the perfect bedside manner.
"Yes, Doctor Dorn," she answered, her voice low. It was all she could do to hold back the tears. This was her last chance at a job. "You see," she went on desperately, "I taught at Deephollow for a year. But—I was young—I enjoyed dancing. I even smoked on occasion; and both were anathema in that backwoods community. The School Board brought me up on charges. They included other things I never dreamed of doing—and—and—I was dishonorably discharged. That meant I went on the blacklist, and no other School Board would hire me. So you see—"
Dr. Arnold Dorn nodded. "Of course," he said softly. "That is why you came to Idlerest seeking employment as a teacher for—ah—my guests, shall we call them?"
Jessica smiled wanly, trying to still the repulsion of her flesh. Guests! Idiots, rather; imbeciles, cretins, Mongoloids! The secret sore spots of wealthy families, the misborn children, the unwanted doddering fathers whose brains had softened after too furious living. Here, in Dr. Dorn's sanatorium, they were out of the way, forgotten, no longer specters to trouble their relatives. And here they remained until they died. All at enormous fees, of course. Dr. Dorn catered only to the wealthiest.
The doctor pursed his red lips again. "I think," he said, "that you'll do. You have had sufficient teaching experience and," he chuckled suddenly, "your alleged peccadilloes are not considered sins in my establishment. In fact, they are desirable assets. We like our young teachers to try to enliven the routine of our inmates, cheer them up." Once more his eyes seemed to strip her body of its protecting garments. "And—uh—you have other qualifications."
The words of thanks stuck in Jessica's throat; would not emerge. A tightly folded dollar bill was all she had between herself and starvation; every agency had turned down her application—after checking her name on the blacklist—and only the very last she had gone to in her weary search for work—a hole in the wall in a rather unsavory neighborhood—had suggested Dr. Dorn's sanatorium. She did not know that the proprietress of the establishment received a hundred dollars for every young and good-looking applicant that she recommended!
But now that the job was hers, the girl almost yielded to a sudden desire to refuse, to flee this luxurious place, its wooded grounds and high grim walls, while she still had the chance. The spasm passed. She lifted her head bravely. "Thanks, Dr. Dorn!" she said with an effort. "I'll do my best."
He arose from his chair. He was taller than she had thought. His legs were like opening jackknives. His gaze still lingered on the twin swellings that pushed her dress out to tight smoothness. "I'm sure you'll do everything you can for the comfort and pleasure of our—er—guests," he agreed, with a strange intonation. "Now, if you'll come with me, we'll—"
The door of his office swung suddenly open. Outside, in the luxurious anteroom, there was a commotion. Voices, the tramp of feet, scuffling, an angry voice that lifted in hoarse rage.
"I tell you, Wallace, you can't get away with this! I'm as sane as you are, and a damn sight saner, too! A hell of an uncle you turned out to be, trying to steal my invention, my royalties! That's why you got those crooked doctors and chiseling lawyers to railroad me to the bughouse. But wait! I'll—"
THERE was a sharp outcry, a yell of fear, the crash of bodies in thrashing struggle; then the accusing voice stifled abruptly.
Jessica felt the cold prickles of apprehension race over her flesh. There had been a sickening, crunching noise before the wild outburst had ceased; as if...
Dr. Dorn had not moved from his position. But his eyes were menacing on the man who had flung open the door, who stood in its shadow, panting heavily. He was squat of body and barrel-chested like an ape. Hard knuckles had opened a gash on his brutish countenance. His own knuckles, just now unclenching slowly, were battered, bleeding.
The doctor's voice cut like a lash. "So you've hit one of my patients, Al? You've been warned before. This time there'll be a penalty—"
The orderly stopped, gasping. He went pale. He almost groveled in fear. "I—I couldn't help it, Doc," he protested hoarsely. "He went fer me—"
"That doesn't matter," Dorn cut in coldly. "My patients are always right."
"But he went fer Mr. Bland, too!" Al sputtered. "Wanted to kill him. And Mr. Bland hisself told me to give him the works."
"A-ah!" A calculating light sprang into Dorn's eyes. "So it's Bland, eh, and his poor nephew, Martin Hale? Why didn't you say so in the first place?"
To Jessica, wide-eyed, scared, it seemed that his manner changed subtly as he stalked out through the open door. Suave, ingratiating, welcoming.
"Mr. Wallace Bland," he smirked, hand extended, "welcome to Idlerest. I had not expected you until tomorrow."
Bland picked himself off the floor, brushed his crumpled clothes with venomous gestures. His left eye was puffed and swollen; it was already turning black. He was a stout, vigorous man in the middle forties, obviously accustomed to every sensual self-indulgence. His face was now purple with rage.
"Hello, Dorn," he rasped. "We—that is, the Board of Examining Doctors and the Committee of the Incompetent that the Court appointed, decided not to waste any time after the commitment papers were signed. As you see—"
"And this," the doctor turned, "is your poor nephew, I take it?"
He lay extended on the floor, struggling feebly. Two husky guards held him down, were fastening him into a strait jacket. Jessica peeped out at him in shuddering fascination. He was young—and good looking, if one could judge from his battered face where Al's fist had smashed. His limbs were long and lithe, and the muscles bunched on his broad shoulders as he wrestled with the panting guards.
"Poor nephew, hell!" Bland spat angrily, nursing his eye. "Martin Hale's a homicidal maniac, I tell you. He tried to kill me; knocked one of the examining doctors unconscious. You'll have to be damn' careful, Dorn. He's threatened to escape at the first opportunity. If he does—"
"He won't," Dr. Dorn said softly.
Wallace Bland grinned suddenly. "Okay then," he approved. Then his manner changed. He looked pityingly out of his one good eye. "Poor boy; I'm really sorry for him. After all, it's not his fault. Working on that silly invention of his finally addled his brain. He thought everyone was in a conspiracy to steal it from him. Mind you, he accused even me, his poor mother's only brother. Just because I told him it was no good, after I had experts examine it for him. Remember, Dorn, I want him to get the best of care. I'm paying you enough for it, and out of my own pocket, too. Poor Marty hasn't a cent in the world."
A long look passed between the two men.
"He'll get special attention from my staff," Dorn promised. "And you needn't—er—worry any more about him, Bland. Under my course of treatment he'll lose all homicidal tendencies."
"Good!" Bland growled, flicked the last spot of dust from his sleeve. "Send me a formal report on him the first of every month. Your check will be mailed on the fifth. 'Bye!"
He reeled about, stamped heavily out of the front door, without even as much as a backward glance at the doctor or his nephew.
Dorn straightened up abruptly. His ingratiating smile was gone. Thin-lipped calculation took its place. "All right, Ben, Joe, Al! Take him to the examination room. I'll be there shortly to look him over. Step on it!"
The men grinned understandingly. Unceremoniously they heaved the still struggling patient between them, tightened the straps, lugged him out of the room.
JESSICA caught her breath sharply. Dorn had assured her his "guests" were harmless, docile. But this young man who had just been entered, was a raving, dangerous maniac. Suppose...
She was aware of the intent gaze of the trimly bearded doctor. Again she had that strange sensation of being unclothed, of standing naked for his inspection. "You needn't worry about Martin Hale," he said suddenly. She started. Had he been reading her thoughts?
He moved silently, like a cat, back to his desk, pressed a button. Jessica whirled, shuddering. Almost before his finger had lifted, a woman stood at her side. "Yes, Doctor?" she questioned in a creaking voice.
The girl looked at the apparition with faint loathing. She was old and angular, and clad in a rusty black dress that swept the floor. Wisps of grey hair, streaked a hideous yellow by a dye that had not quite taken, escaped from under her nurse's cap. Bright black eyes, almost reptilian in their beadiness, bored out of a twisted, wrinkled face. The tight compression of her lips was merciless, and coarse grey hairs stubbled her pointed chin and upper lip. Her hands were knotted and powerful, more like a stevedore's than those of an elderly woman. The handle of a short, thick whip peeped ominously from under the jacket of her dress.
"This is Jessica Smith, our new teacher," Dorn introduced. "And this," he indicated the crone, "is Nancy Rowan, in charge of our girls." He laughed without merriment. "She's your boss, Jessica. Whatever Nance says goes around here. Remember that!" He turned to the old woman. "Okay, Nance. You know what to do. Fit her out, get her started on her duties. I have a new inmate who requires my immediate attention."
He went out rapidly through a rear door in his office. His feet made no sound; the door barely whispered its closing.
"Come on, you!" rasped Nancy Rowan. "I ain't got all day."
Jessica followed her submissively into the great anteroom. The head nurse clumped to the left, took out a key from the pocket of her dress, and thereby exposed the sinister whip handle more boldly to Jessica's wide gaze. She inserted the key into a door, twisted, flung it open. "Go on in!" she growled.
The girl hesitated, stepped in. The crone was at her side, and the door slammed heavily behind them. Jessica's straining ears could hear a little click. Locked!
For the moment blind panic assailed her. She was a prisoner, hemmed in from the outer world! Hysterics welled. She did not like this place, this queerly named Idlerest, Dr. Dorn's sanatorium for the wealthy insane. It was magnificent enough, it was true, as lavishly furnished and equipped as the finest hotel, and the grounds were spacious; but she had been trembling ever since she had entered the stout-barred gates that opened between high stone walls, surmounted by jagged shards of glass. There was something sinister in the atmosphere, ornate as it was; in the way Dr. Dorn's eyes had slithered over her body; in the violent reception of the homicidal maniac, Martin Hale; in the faces of the guards and orderlies, of this hag who was the Head Nurse; and now in the clicking of the door lock!
"Come on, slowpoke!" Nance Rowan snarled.
Jessica clenched her teeth. She was being foolish! Naturally, in an asylum, doors had to be locked, guards kept. No matter how harmless the inmates, one could never tell...
She stilled the shuddering of her flesh, walked with a steady step after her guide.
BUT this passageway was not like that in a hotel: it was more like the corridor that leads through blocks of jail cells. Bare of furnishings, grey-walled, somber, with blank green doors along its length tightly shut against the curious eye.
A green door opened suddenly, shut with hasty clamor behind a girl in nurse's uniform. She was young, and beautiful, Jessica noted, in an assertive, hard-faced sort of way. A little secretive smile played over her rouged cheeks as she released the knob.
Then she saw the hobbling old woman. The smile wiped off her face; she said hastily. "Hello Miss Rowan. Any further orders?"
Nance stopped, twisted her head. Her eyes raked the girl greedily. "Take care of Cyrus King all right, Amy?"
Amy giggled. There was a queer look in her eyes. "Swell!" she said. "He couldn't possibly have any complaints."
"That's good, Amy. Some of them loonies been hollering lately about their nurses. Claim they're too shy."
Amy shook her head vigorously. "Not me, Miss Rowan. None of them can say that about me. Only," she hesitated and tried to smooth her dress, "this guy King gets kind of rough."
"You kin handle him. Come on, Jessica."
Amy's eyes lifted. They met those of the new girl. "Hello," she greeted her. "Come to be a nurse, eh?"
"Naw!" Nance interposed with subtle contempt. "Jest a teacher for the nitwits."
Amy giggled. "Same thing, only harder work. Does—er—she know?"
"Not yet!" The Head Nurse grew angry. "That's enough chatter, Amy. Get along on your job."
Jessica hurried after her, but her knees shook. What had they meant with their hints and innuendoes? And why had Amy's prim white uniform been rumpled? Why had the hooks that held her dress been ripped apart? What sort of an institution was Idlerest, anyway?
There was no chance for answer. Another of the strange green doors crashed furiously open, a girl darted out, slammed it tight again. She too was dressed in nurse's uniform, but a uniform that had been ripped and disheveled. A lovely breast was exposed through a long rent in the starched, high-collared blouse; and on its milky swell a red, irregular gash dripped globules of blood.
The girl was young, pretty, almost a child; and desperate. Terror leaped in her wide, dark eyes; her thin face was distorted with fear. She flung herself feverishly against the shut door, held the knob tight with straining pressure.
Through the muffling wood came a bleating roar, a gabble of furious sound. Heavy fists pounded and crashed upon the oak; the smooth knob turned and twisted in spite of all the girl's efforts to hold it firm.
Nance Rowan stopped short. Her lips compressed mercilessly. "What's going on here, Marie Brissot?" she snarled.
The girl turned a tear-streaked, terrified face. She shrank against the door at the sight of the crone; yet her fingers retained their white-knuckled pressure. "I—I can't go in there, Miss Rowan," she cried hysterically. "Not with Mr. Yates. He's such a—"
The old woman's withered features blazed malignantly. "What's the matter with Handley Yates? He ain't no different from the others. His folks pay well. You're getting too hoity-toity fer your own good, Marie Brissot! You've been warned before. Now go on inside and take care o' Mr. Yates, or I'll—" Her gnarled and twisted fingers crept significantly close to the crop of her whip.
"Not that! Not that!" shrieked Marie.
"Then get inside!"
Slowly, like one going to her death, the girl opened the door. Jessica, horrified, caught a thin glimpse of an idiot face, bestially aflame, of a hairy hand reaching for Marie. Then the door had shut, and all sounds ceased.
Jessica braced herself against the wall. She could go no farther. Every ounce of strength had deserted her legs. A vague, unknowing horror clamped tight bands across her skull.
LIKE a cat Nance Rowan was at her side, shaking her trembling shoulders with a grip of surprising strength. "Here, you, Jessica Smith! What're you stopping fer?"
"I—I don't think I want to take this position," the girl gasped. "I've changed my mind. I want to go home."
The head nurse snarled, chuckled hideously. "It's too late fer that, my fine young girl. Ain't no one kin take a job in Idlerest and drop it jest like that. What's the matter?"
Jessica shivered erect. "I—I don't like it, I tell you. Why did Marie Brissot—?"
"Oh, that!" Nance threw back her head and laughed with queer intonation. "She's jest a stupid little fool. Don't know how to git along with her patients. She'll learn, or else—" The crone stopped her laughter. "But here, I ain't got all day to explain. An' your class is waiting—they wants to learn what you kin teach."
High, screeching laughter jetted again from her lips. She pushed the girl before her.
Jessica went on, her limbs dragging, clenching her chilled lips to keep from screaming. She was like a terrified lamb, led to the slaughter. For a desperate moment she thought of breaking away, of racing for safety. But where? Behind her the door had locked, and Nance Rowan, more powerful for all her years than she, held the key. And ahead, those blank green doors, with that which they concealed...
She felt herself being pushed into a room. A dressing room. Costumes, clothing of all sorts, hung on hooks ranged around the walls. The old woman hobbled to a hook, took off a dress, shook it out. "Here!" she rasped. "Get into your teacher's outfit, Jessica Smith."
Chilled to the bone, dazed, without quite knowing what she was doing, Jessica slipped out of her own clothes. First the neatly shabby dress, then her threadbare slip, then brassiere, shoes and stockings and step-ins. Nance stared at her with narrowed, appraising eyes; took in her slender limbs, the soft curve of her thighs, the lithe firmness of young flesh and molded bosom. "Not bad, Jessica!" she mumbled. "Ye'll do!"
Jessica caught up hastily the garment that the old woman handed her. She felt defiled by that look, that strange appraisement; she felt...
She whirled, shrieked, held the dress tight to her nakedness. The door had remained open. A man was standing in the door. He was gaping foolishly at her charms, swaying unsteadily on his feet.
Nance swung around. Her voice was hoarse with rage. "Can't ye wait, ye blasted fool?" Then her tone changed. "Why, who the devil are you?" she demanded in surprise.
The young man wagged his head dully. His brow crinkled with effort. "I?" he said hesitantly. "Why, I'm Martin Hale."
"Oh," nodded the Head Nurse, and her bony face tightened. "So you're the new one, the looney inventor, eh? Well, get away from here, and be quick about it."
He nodded like a pendulum that had forgotten to stop. "All right," he said vaguely, and shambled away.
Jessica thrust the dress with trembling fingers over her head. Fierce indignation had burnt away her earlier terror. What did that homicidal maniac mean by peeping in on her? He was good-looking, and young, undeniably, and his bruised cheek had been washed free of blood but he swayed and spoke like a moron, and his glazed eyes had searched out her nakedness. Hot fury welled in her. She'd show him...
Then she was staring down at the dress her hands had instinctively smoothed into place. "Why, why," she stammered, "you've made a mistake, Miss Rowan. This can't be the dress I'm supposed to wear while teaching."
"An' why not?" the head nurse growled.
"Why—because—well, look at it!"
The garment was a startling, vivid red. An evening gown that clung sinuously to her body, revealed through its sheer transparency every line, every curve, even the warm tints of her flesh. The back was deeply V-slashed, and in front, her breasts lifted boldly beneath the sheer fabric.
"I don't see nothin' wrong with that," the old woman snapped. "You oughta be glad we give yuh such nice dresses to wear. Makes a teacher look real purty."
"But, don't you see," Jessica pleaded desperately, "I can't teach a class of—of men in this."
"You'll teach 'em an' like it," Nance said threateningly.
HER scrawny hand darted out, caught the shrinking girl in a grip of steel. "They're waiting for you now," she wheezed, "and the guests of Idlerest must never be kept waiting. No, never."
Jessica tried to writhe loose, to struggle; but she was helpless in the old woman's clutch. Perforce she was dragged along, through the corridor, down to the very end. French doors stood open. A huge room showed dimly within. A faint mutter of sound filtered out.
The crone flung the girl staggering inside. "Teach!" she chuckled hoarsely. Then the great doors swung into place; there was a sinister grating noise. They had been locked behind her! She was a prisoner, locked in with...
Her hand caught at the edge of something hard. Moaning with fear, she dragged her rigid body upright. The great room was in gloom. It took time for her terrified eyes to pierce the darkness, and to familiarize herself with the surroundings.
It was a schoolroom, without doubt. She was holding on for dear life to a wide-topped desk. Books lined its outer rim in a neat row. Books bound in flaming red, flaunting gold titles. A volume lay open on the desk. A swivel chair faced it, waiting her occupancy. Directly in back, on the wall, was a huge blackboard. Chalk lay neatly in the groove. A pointer stood upright at one side.
For a moment faint hope swirled through her limbs. It was all quite formal, proper; just like the schoolrooms in which she had formerly taught normal pupils. Perhaps she had misjudged, had misinterpreted the things she had seen. Perhaps, after all, she was really to teach these poor brainless idiots, attempt to bring back the painful spark of sanity to their darkened minds.
Then her eyes grew accustomed to the gloom, and she saw what pictures had been drawn on the blackboard. With a cry of shame she whirled. Startling in their realism were those pictures, the representations of a depraved mind. She could never...
White-faced, gasping, her gaze swung to that neat row of books. The titles blared back at her. Obscene titles, names of books she had heard mentioned in low, horrified tones. Books whose very possession meant long jail sentences in any civilized community.
She leaned weakly over the desk, while her wide gaze went beyond, to the dim benches that receded, tier on tier.
Men were sitting on those benches, men dressed in impeccable clothes—but, dear God! their faces! They sat hunched forward—young men, middle-aged, old—staring up at their new teacher. Faces alike in horrible similitude; mindless, leering.
Jessica shrank back again, stifling a scream. Those eyes, their avid glances, enveloped her body in a veritable wave of lechery.
She fell into the chair, tried vainly to hide her undraped charms. These were her pupils!
Hungry sounds spewed from their throats. Lips bleated. "Stand, up, teacher, let me see you!" someone cried. A growl of eager approval lifted.
Panting, frightened, by sheer effort of will she raised herself to their gaze. She must humor them, pretend that she was not afraid; otherwise...
"Pupils," she forced her voice to steadiness, "I am your new teacher, Miss Smith!"
"Sure you are," a voice howled. "They gotta give us a new teacher, since the other one died."
The room rocked with screeches of laughter, of maniac glee. Grown men thumped each other on the backs, coughed and choked and sputtered.
A haze misted the girl's eyes. Her moan of horror was lost in the noise. The other teacher had—died! God in heaven, what was to be her fate?
Desperately she tried again. If only she could distract their attention from her too revealing dress; if only she could interest them—
"Suppose we start with arithmetic," she said with a dreadful calm. "With addition, for example."
"Sure, teacher. We add you to our collection and that makes—"
Again that howl of idiot glee.
"Perhaps geography," she suggested desperately. She would faint in another moment.
"We like geography," screeched a leering cretin. "We like maps and figures..." And his thick fingers pawed through the air in obscene gesture.
But they were tiring of this sport. A new light flamed in their eyes. Slowly they were rising from their seats; slowly they were creeping forward. Jessica fell back against the wall; her rigid fingers pushing at the hard slate. "Stop! Stop! Go back!" she cried in fear.
But on they came—shambling, stealthy men, mindless; yet their darkened senses aflame with a single horrible idea. She read it in their red-glowing eyes, she saw it in their clutching hands, their licking lips. Closer, closer, in a tight semicircle, cutting off retreat.
SHE stood rigid, like one frozen. Her limbs had turned to water from sheer terror. As in a dream she saw Martin Hale staring dully at her from the outskirts of that dreadful crew, making no move.
"Help!" she cried out sharply. But the young man just swayed, remained where he was.
Fingers darted out from the mob, pawed greedily over her breast. She fought them off, screamed in the last stage of revulsion. All about her were horrible faces, closer, closer...
The pushing throng was thrust violently aside in two scattering waves. "Get back to your seats, you filthy brutes!" a new voice shouted, terse, commanding.
There was a moment's poised hesitation. Then the voice snapped again, and, like obedient cattle, the idiot pupils shambled back to their benches.
"Are you all right, Miss Smith?" the newcomer asked anxiously.
Jessica swayed, would have fallen if her savior had not grasped her in time. "Thank you! Thank you!" she whispered. "I—I don't know what would have happened if you—"
"I know," he told her grimly. "I've seen it happen before. Buck up, Miss Smith. Face them; pretend everything's all right. And start teaching—anything: geometry, history, astronomy, archeology; the more abstruse the subject, the better. It'll quiet them down."
She looked up at him gratefully. He was a tall, grave, fatherly looking man, with an air of undeniable breeding and culture about him. His eyes were clear, commiserating; his clipped gray mustache dignified. "But—but what are you doing in this horrible place?" she shuddered.
The clear eyes clouded; he smiled sadly. "I am Henry Littell, one of the—er—inmates; one of Dr. Dorn's best paying guests, I believe."
Jessica stared. "But surely, Mr. Littell, you don't look—"
"Crazy?" he finished for her gently. "Of course not. I'm quite sane, thank God!" His face hardened, went grim. "But unfortunately I possess millions. And I have a wife as well; a wife who wants those millions so she can run away with her paramour. She concocted this devilish scheme, found the right people who would do her bidding; and behold—I am here!"
"But they can't hold a sane person," she exclaimed indignantly. "Surely your friends outside; your own self—you can prove to a court—"
He smiled wanly. "My dear Miss Smith," he said quietly, "you don't understand. My friends don't even know where I am; my wife gave it out that I had taken a trip around the world. And as for anyone proving anything in Idlerest, well—you've seen for yourself."
Her hands tightened, and the blood jelled in her veins. She had almost forgotten, in the first rush of sympathy for Henry Littell. Now she saw those brutish faces, that of Martin Hale, startlingly out of place, yet more homicidal and dangerous even than the others. They were getting restless again.
"You know what to do," Littell whispered. "Hurry!" Quietly he glided back to the rear row, smiled encouragingly at her.
Calling upon her inner reserves, fortified by the knowledge that she had found a protector, Jessica taught. As Littell had suggested, she chose the most profound and involved subjects. Whatever she could salvage from her college days. The Anglo-Saxon epic as an art-form, the Malthusian doctrine of war and overpopulation, Locke's lucubrations on government.
They stared at her feebly, and the wild light died in their eyes at the numbing phrases. Their faces resumed their blank, stolid idiocy. Once or twice she dared to call on a particularly Mongoloid type for an answer, and received only mumbling, indistinguishable words. Once she called on Martin Hale. But he only shook his head—though a puzzled frown sparked momentarily in his dull eyes. His head lolled, his chin sank on his chest, as if too heavy to be held upright.
BUT Henry Littell was a wonder and a delight. She called on him many times, as much to explore his mind as to seek the comfort of his rich, cultivated voice. He did not fail her once. With smiling urbanity, as if he understood her motives, he answered everything, no matter what the question. The man, as he undoubtedly proved, had a vast knowledge.
Yet it was eternity—that hour in which Jessica forced herself to teach those insane pupils. Time and again she hesitated, would have broken under the terrific strain had she not caught Littell's warning glance. Time and again the benches grew restless, and vacant eyes lit up with returning lust, as they clung to her lissome form, absorbed greedily the sight of those appealing curves that her daring gown accentuated rather than concealed.
And each time Jessica shifted the topic, hammered out in fierce desperation more and more many-syllabled words, orated resounding passages from the poets, beat them down into vacuity again by the very power of her voice.
It was only an hour—her wrist watch told her that afterward—but when the doors swung silently open, and Dr. Arnold Dorn, suave and smiling, stepped into the schoolroom, she had passed through everlasting torture, through purgatorial fires.
His grey eyes slid around the room, studying his inmates, seeking signs... His brow darkened; his red lips pursed. He turned to the tottering girl.
"Well, Jessica," he asked blandly, "everything go all right this first lesson?"
She staggered over to him, lifted her face imploringly. "Dr. Dorn," she gasped, "you must let me go! I—I've changed my mind. I don't want this job any more. Please!" Her voice broke; she was getting hysterical.
"You are merely overwrought," he said smoothly. "In time, my dear, you will learn to love your work." But he seemed puzzled. His gaze moved over her gown, appraised its revealing nature; and the frown deepened.
"Never!" she sobbed. "It's horrible, what you're doing! I've seen those other girls—you can't hold me! I'll escape—somehow!"
Black thunder snarled on his face. His fingers bit cruelly into her flesh. "You saw—nothing; do you understand?" There was death—and worse—in his tone. "And don't try to escape, my dear. I have ways and means..."
He stepped back suddenly, raised his voice. "Nance! Take this poor, misguided creature to her room. Tomorrow morning she is—ah—to teach again."
Once more the withered crone was at his side, like an evil spirit raised by the incantation of its master. Her yellow-dyed straggling locks shook vigorously under her cap. "Don't ye worry, Doctor Dorn," she wheezed. "I'll take care of her."
He swung on the huddled class of idiots, and his manner became mild, ingratiating. "My dear guests," he purred, "it grieves me to see that this lesson was profitless for you. Perhaps Miss Smith was not sufficiently—ah—persuasive. I trust she will be more agreeable tomorrow; if not, I hope that you will see to it just the same that you obtain the full benefit of her instruction." Sinister, subtle phrases, playing upon their already inflamed maniac minds, urging them on...
Jessica swayed. Everything darkened before her. She'd never live through tomorrow; she'd never be able to control them again...
Henry Littell pushed suddenly up to the head of the sanatorium. His hands clenched, his eyes blazed. "Now look here, Doctor Dorn," he said rapidly. "It's about time that this farce ends. My wife has paid you plenty to keep me here as insane. You know as well as I that I am not; that I am the victim of a gigantic plot. Let me go, and I'll give you half my millions, far more than she can ever offer you."
The doctor beamed benignly on the panting man. "You know I can't do that, Littell. Your wife has too much influence. Perhaps if you'll wait patiently—I may be able, some day..."
He left it vague like that. Littell shrugged his shoulders, moved quietly back.
But even as Jessica felt her arm gripped, herself jerked roughly away, there was a quick scuffle. A man—Martin Hale—had hurled himself upon the suave and smiling doctor. He had him by the throat, was choking him with fierce gusto. Strangled cries, shouts, the swift rush of husky orderlies, led by Al; the sickening thud of blows.
THAT was all Jessica heard. For Nance, snarling like a she-wolf, dragged her through the corridor, past a bend where all sounds ceased.
"Please, Miss Rowan," the girl implored. "Help me, let me get out of this horrible place. For the love of God!"
The woman turned; her eyes were suddenly calculating. "How much money ye got, girl?"
"N-nothing," Jessica confessed in despair. "Only a dollar bill. But if you'll help me, I'll work myself to the bone afterward, pay you as much as you want."
Nance threw back her head, chuckled horribly. "You can't bribe me—that way. Come on. You're no better than the others what come here."
The old woman never relaxed her tight grip on the girl's arm. With her left hand she fumbled for a bunch of keys in the pocket of her black dress. "This here's your room Jessica," she snapped. "Ye'll find your supper inside on a tray."
She fitted a key to the lock of a yellow-painted door, flung it open. It was like a prison cell. Bare, grey-walled, with a tiny window high up, too small to wriggle through, and barred with stout iron bars. A plain white hospital bed, a chair, a small table, and a wash stand in the corner comprised all the furnishings. On the table was set a tray. A still-steaming hash of unknown materials, a hunk of bread, a thick mug of black coffee. That was all. No knives or forks or other utensils; only a single spoon. A dreadful thought flashed through Jessica, clotted her blood. No possible weapon was given her, for defense, or—for suicide!
"Is that all I have to eat?" she asked bravely.
The old woman grinned. "Until ye show yourself more obliging to the guests," she leered. "Like Amy Gordon, fer example. Now there's a girl what's smart. She aims to please, and what happens? She gits the best of everything—clothes, food, a lovely room, perfumes, luxuries. The Doc ain't a bad one to his girls when they act properly; but ef they don't—" Her significant silence was more sinister than any words.
Jessica paled, but her voice was steady. "Then I'll eat this food—forever!"
Someone was coming down the corridor. Like a clumsy bear shambling along. Huge body that lurched from wall to wall, feet that scraped and shuffled. A monster of a man. Almost six feet tall, thick of girth and limb. He was dressed in spotless evening clothes. Black, formal tails, silk-striped trousers, a gleaming stiff shirt front, wing collar and white bow tie. Shiny patent leather pumps covered his huge feet.
But the face that surmounted all that correctness was that of a madman! His heavy jaw, enshrouded in a thick black beard, gaped horribly open; his squat nose twitched with a perpetual itch, and lights crawled in his inflamed eyes.
Nance dropped him a semi-obsequious, semi-mocking curtsy. "Why, Mr. Yates, what do you want?"
He swayed up to them, peered greedily at Jessica. "I want her," he said thickly, "to fix up my room."
The girl shrank toward the half-open door, panting.
Nance shook her head regretfully. "Sorry, Mr. Yates, but she's the new teacher; not one of the nurses. She has other duties to perform around here."
"I want her!" Handley Yates persisted. He was the scion of one of the richest families in America. He had been born a cretin. After much heart-breaking publicity in other institutions, his desperate family had transferred him to Idlerest. There he was lost to sight, dropped out of the news. They heaved sighs of relief—and never came to visit him. They paid enormous fees for his care.
Jessica swayed in alarm. For the moment the head nurse was her only protector. "Don't let him—" she said faintly. "Shet up," rasped the beldame. "I got orders from Dr. Dorn." Then her beady eyes lifted. "There's the very nurse you want, Mr. Yates," she cried. "You, Marie Brissot! Where you trying to sneak to?"
THE little nurse, slight of frame, came forward with dragging feet from the shadows into which she had tried to flatten herself. "Nowheres, Miss Rowan," she said tonelessly. Jessica trembled at the look in her countenance. She was barely more than a child, with young, virginal breasts that swelled within her white starched uniform, and slender ankles that peeped coyly beneath her skirt.
But her pretty face with its tiny, tilted nose was a mask of dead-white emptiness. All feeling, all despair, was drained from her rigid expression. Death lurked in her eyes, in the fixity of her gaze.
"Well," grinned the crone, "I got a nice, easy job fer ye. Mr. Yates here wants a nurse to fix up his room fer the night; make him comfortable. You tidy up right well when ye want to, Marie. How about it, Mr. Yates?"
The big hulk in his dress suit turned vacuous eyes. "All right," he mumbled. He lurched to the green door that faced diagonally across from Jessica's room. He lumbered in. Jessica caught glimpses of a huge bed, piled high with luxurious pillows and finest coverlets, of deep-cushioned easy chairs, of gleaming mirrors, of glowing rugs. Dr. Dorn spared no expense to keep his inmates content, pampered, so that no complaints might filter back to those who footed his enormous bills.
"Get on with you!" Nance reached for her whip.
Marie Brissot looked quietly at her, at the horrified girl who stood within the doorway. Her expression did not change; did not seem as if it could ever change. Then, without a word, stiffly, she entered the room of Handley Yates. The door closed behind her without a sound.
Nance whirled on Jessica. "And you," she snarled. "Inside!"
The girl fell backward and the door slammed with an irrevocable sound. The key grated in the lock. She was alone—a prisoner for the night!
Blindly Jessica stumbled to the bed, threw herself headlong on the hard pallet. Sobs ripped her throat, her slender shoulders shook in an agony of despair. She had not dreamed when she had passed through the tight-faced guards at the gate, that this would be the result. Then she had trembled with anticipation; and now...
SHE lay there a long time. The shadows deepened, became sinister, threatening. Not a sound penetrated from the outside world, from the abode of degradation and horror in which she had unwittingly been trapped.
Then human wants assailed her. She was hungry, dry of mouth. She wiped the tears away, tottered weakly to her feet. Fumbling, she found the switch. The room glimmered with dim illumination from a solitary ceiling light. She dragged herself to the table, stared at the hash. Shuddering, she forced a single mouthful down, ate no more. Her stomach revolted at the nauseous mess. She drank the black coffee, lukewarm by now. It was bitter, but it eased her torment.
Then she threw herself back on the bed, tried to shut her mind against thought. She could not. Horrible visions swirled within her heated brain, brought moans to her lips. Tomorrow...
She must have drifted off into uneasy sleep, for she suddenly found herself sitting up, her heart thumping, her eyes wide with terror.
There was someone in the room with her! She had sensed his stealthy tread, had heard the quick hissing of his breath. It was pitch dark.
She tried to scream; could not. The cry did not leave her lips. A hand, a mere inky shadow of clutching fingers, moved toward her. Closer! Then she screamed.
The hand caught at her throat, tightened. "You fool!" hissed a voice. "You'll wake up the whole place."
She fell back on the pillow. "Who—who are you?" she quavered.
The voice was grim, taut. "Martin Hale!"
At the same time he had found the switch. The room swam into being. Hand to her mouth, she stared at him.
The newly arrived inmate was a sight to freeze her veins to ice. His clothes were torn and bloodied. His face, young, handsome, was now a battered mask. His lips were puffed, his cheek gashed almost to the bone. Red smeared his mouth, his chin. And a hard, desperate light flamed in his eyes.
"Hurry!" he whispered huskily. "We have no time to lose. Already they must have found my door smashed down, the dead guard, and that damned old witch gagged with her own dress. If you want to get out we must hurry or else...
Hope hammered her veins back to life. Eagerly she jerked forward on the bed, fell back again cowering. He was mad, insane; a homicidal maniac! It was a trick on his part to get her out where he could work his will.
"H-how did you get in?" she quivered.
He laughed harshly, and the sound tortured her aching nerves. "Took the keys from Nance Rowan, rot her evil soul. I thought of you before I made a break. You don't seem the kind of a girl that belongs in here."
All her being yearned to believe him, but shrank from him. "But—but," she shuddered, "back in that awful schoolroom you didn't try to help me."
His bloody brow creased into folds. "I—know it," he said vaguely. "I couldn't focus my thoughts. Everything blurred. I think Dorn fed me dope when I was in the straitjacket." His fingers curved tensely. "Damn them all—Dorn and Wallace Bland and the whole tribe of them! First they tried to steal my invention; then they shoved me into this filthy hell hole. Wait until I get out—"
She had almost believed him. Now she shivered away. He was hopelessly insane. He had already killed a guard; had tried to strangle Dr. Dorn. She stared with fascinated horror at those clenched hands. Once they curled around her throat...
He whirled on her impatiently. "Hurry!" he rasped. "We have only seconds. There is a way out from the cellar into the grounds; through the woods..."
Dear God! The thought of herself helpless with this maniac in the darkling woods paralyzed her limbs.
"You had better go yourself," she said with desperate cunning. "I'll only impede you, keep you from escaping."
He grinned, and his battered countenance twisted the grin into distorted shape. "I couldn't leave you behind," he spoke through puffed lips. "You look much too young, too decent, for this place."
"No!" she said determinedly.
"You're an idiot," he snarled. "I won't let you stay even if you want to."
HIS sinewy hand jerked forward, caught her by the low collar of her dress. She had tumbled into bed just as she was. It ripped, displayed the naked glory of her bosom.
She cried out then. Now she knew him for what he was—a more cunning, more dangerous madman than the others. He caught at her again, his mouth a grim slash, his eyes pin-points. She struggled, shrieked for help.
Down the outside corridor someone raced. "Coming, Jessica!" a well-remembered voice boomed. She redoubled her resistance, sank her head suddenly, bit the hand that clutched around her.
The man grunted with pain, jerked away. "All right, hell cat," he gritted. "Stew in your own juice."
Then he was gone, a swift, lean shadow gliding out through the door, disappearing soundlessly in the dim lit passageway.
The next moment Henry Littell ran into the room, his cultured features sharp with anxiety. "Thank Heaven," he whispered, "you're all right, Jessica. I heard you scream, and got here as fast as I could."
She buried her head on his shoulder, shook with relaxed emotion. "He almost had me," she sobbed. "He was sly. Tried to entice me out with him. I almost went."
"Who?"
"Martin Hale."
Littell's face clouded. "That maniac!" he exclaimed. "Lucky you didn't go. He's the most dangerous of them all. A killer!"
"He—he claims he's sane; that his uncle put him in this place so he could steal his invention."
The man laughed softly, patted her shoulder. "All the loonies here have the same alibis," he declared. "If you'd believe their protestations, every one of them is perfectly normal. It's always grasping relatives who locked them up."
She lifted her head. "But—but," she stammered.
He smiled. "I know just what you have in mind," he agreed. "In my case it happens to be true—the one case out of a million. But I wonder where Hale went."
"He claimed he knew a way to get out, through the cellar."
Littell jerked around sharply. His little gray mustache quivered with eagerness. "Through the cellar?" he husked. Hope blazed in his eyes. "If he meant by the barred window, then..."
Outside lights blazed, voices cried faintly, feet thudded. Henry Littell gripped the girl tightly by the shoulder. "They're coming," he said fiercely. "Dorn and the rest of them. Come on!"
"But where?" she gasped.
"Into the cellar. I know the way. If that madman Hale was right—"
"I can't go like this," she cried. Her gown hung in loose shreds; her body was nude almost to the waist.
"Yes, this way," he insisted. "It's better than what awaits you tomorrow."
She leaped out of bed, heedless of her appearance. She'd die rather than face the morrow. "Lead the way," she said steadily.
They ran out into the passageway. The voices were louder, the lights flashed around the bend. But even as they left the threshold, Littell jerked the girl back suddenly into the shelter of the room.
A green door was opening across the way. A man came out. Handley Yates! He was still dressed in his formal evening clothes, but they were askew, crumpled. The white tie danged loose, the collar was wilted.
HE did not see them. He shambled down the corridor, toward the oncoming lights, toward the gathering shouts. He did not seem to see or hear them either. He was mumbling to himself, making little snuffling, greedy sounds, and his hands, strangely red, were fondling something.
Jessica felt suddenly sick. A long thin moan sighed from her lips. He looked up, saw them with vague eyes, dropped them again to the grisly thing that he was fondling.
It was a human hand, hacked off at the wrist, dripping blood as he went!
Those childish, slender fingers, that pale onyx ring which gleamed dully on the drooping third finger...!
"Marie Brissot!" Jessica choked, and was sick again.
Littell nodded. "They do those things around here," he remarked. "Here's our chance!"
Yates had rounded the corner, had smacked into the pursuit. There were cries, exclamations, sharp words filling the air.
What happened then was forever vague in Jessica's mind. She had a dim recollection of being hurried along by Littell, of ducking through a door, of stumbling down flights of stairs, while the clamor grew behind them. In the darkness Littell seemed to have eyes like a cat; he turned and twisted and ran with panting intakes of breath.
But while her feet moved mechanically, Jessica saw nothing, heard but little. A single horrible picture made explosive light in her brain, held her wrapped in a blanket of horror. A limp hand dripping blood, fondled greedily by a lustful lunatic. Marie Brissot's hand!
Then air blew fresh and clean into her face. The man at her side said exultantly: "Hale was right! The bars are down! We're free!"
He swung up to the oblong window like a monkey, clambered into the clouded moonlight. New strength surged into Jessica; strength, and a fierce clarity. The sobbing horror swept from her brain, gave way to wild hope.
Heedless of her tender flesh, of her sagging garment, she caught the stone sill, pulled herself up by main strength. Then she lay panting on the lush grass. It was good to see the moon scudding behind a rack of clouds, to smell the odors of green and flowers again.
"Get to your feet," Littell whispered hoarsely. "We've got a long way to go yet. Through those woods, scale the wall..."
His face was close to hers, dim with diffused light, snarling with urgency. Shakily she arose, let him lead the way. Before them loomed huge trees of ancient growth, dark, ominous hemlocks and soughing pines. The clump of woods lay between them and the outer wall.
A strange shudder rippled over her body at the sight of them. They were so still, so black, so redolent of evil. "Perhaps if we were to go the other way," she gasped.
"No!" he snapped. "There is no other way, except by the path. And already they're coming out to hunt for us."
He was right. Lights flashed on the portico, tunneled through the night. She heard Al's raucous voice leading the pack. "Come on, punks. We gotta find 'em."
The gloomy forest swallowed them in its clammy embrace, muffled the rush of their blundering flight. Nothing was heard but their own hurried breathing, the faint sounds of shouting men.
But even as she ran, bumping into trees, tripping over vines, a small unease grew in Jessica.
Henry Littell had been acting queerly since they had started from her room. He had taken the gruesome sight of Handley Yates calmly, almost as a matter of course. He had pushed his way through the window first, without even offering her a hand in assistance. His face had twisted strangely as he had looked at her unveiled loveliness in the dim shine of the moon; his lips had snarled at her suddenly several times.
SHE crashed headlong into a looming tree, gasped for breath. She was letting her thoughts run away with her. Henry Littell had grown accustomed in his enforced incarceration to sights of loathing and horror. Such sights could no longer make any impression. And he obviously was not a man of action, an outdoor athlete like—Martin Hale, for instance. All his life had been spent among books, in sedentary pursuits. He could not be expected to know what to do in their headlong escape.
Thus she defended her companion against herself, against the tiny unease that fumbled at her heart.
"How much farther?" she panted.
"Here we are," Littell answered from the darkness. His voice was thick, heavy. "Dorn permits me every so often to roam these woods, under guards, of course. I remember this spot. I was heading for it."
For the moment Jessica's eyes were dazzled. They had stumbled out into a tiny clearing, against which the tall tree trunks pushed like straining giants. She turned, puzzled, to her companion.
"But I don't understand," she began. "This place—"
She stopped abruptly in astonishment.
Henry Littell was staring as if fascinated at her. The dress had fallen in shreds to her waist; all her glorious body, her milky skin, the rounded heave of her breasts, were exposed to view.
BUT there was no lust in his eyes; nothing but a strange, fascinated absorption.
"What's the matter?" she faltered, and tried vainly to hide her nakedness with her arms.
He moved closer, stiffly, like a somnambulist, his gaze fixed.
"That flower," he whispered. "That little tea rose you have hidden between your breasts. It's the one my wife used to wear. I'd recognize it anywhere. I must pluck it out; get rid of it."
Instinctively her eyes darted down, her hands fell away. "Flower?" she echoed in amazement. "What flower are you talking about?"
His forefinger stabbed out. Rigid, pointing.
"Don't try to fool me, Jessica Smith," he snarled. "There it is, nestling like a poisonous snake within your bosom. A rose! I gave it to my wife. She tried to kill me with it. Now you have it. Give it to me!"
"But—but," she stammered, "you are mistaken. I haven't any rose. It's only the reflection of the moonlight. Please—" She fell back, every nerve shrinking, whipping up modest arms to enfold her nudity again.
He advanced slowly, relentlessly, pressing her against the encircling trees. His face was suffused with anger and hate, his lips twitched in a St. Vitus' Dance of their own, his hand reached out. "So you're in league with my wife?" he mumbled. "So you're trying to kill me, too? Give me that rose—quick—or I'll—"
A faint shriek of terror choked her vocal chords. Her eyes widened on his distorted features. Gone was the dignity, the serenity, the air of refinement, the fatherly, comforting look. In their place was a snarling, contorted mask, murderous, maniacal.
It dawned on Jessica then, ripped her fainting senses into shards of horror. Henry Littell, the man who had aided her, on whom she had relied for escape and confide in, was a madman, as wholly, irretrievably mad as Handley Yates and the others!
His hand darted forward suddenly, raked at her bosom. She jumped back just in time. But the long fingernails had left a red, bleeding gash across the whiteness of her breast.
"I swear to you," she exclaimed in an agony of fear, "I have no rose. I don't even know your wife. Look for yourself, if you must!"
But even as she dropped her guard he was upon her like a springing cat. His nails ripped at her body, his mouth yammered insane phrases. She fought back desperately, hopelessly, seeking always to avoid those terrible fingers as they tore at her breasts, hunting a non-existent flower. Yet even in her extremity of fear and horror, she held back the wild screams that tore at her throat. She must not give tongue to the agony within her. The searching minions of Dorn would hear...
She tripped over a root, sprawled on her back, helpless. She looked up and screamed with every ounce of her being. Littell was poised over her, a fiendish look of triumph in his implacable countenance. A keen-bladed knife, somehow stolen from the kitchen, glittered in his upraised hand.
"You won't give it to me, eh? Then I'll cut it out, cut so deep its roots will never blossom again."
A mad fantasy, product of a crazed brain. But the knife descended...
The underbrush crashed, a thunderbolt hurtled out of the darkling woods, smacked into the crouching man. Littell screeched, was lifted bodily and hurled into the air, making a gruesome thudding sound as he flung against a tree. The knife sailed in a little arc, drove point-wise into the earth. There it quivered, rocking like a pendulum.
Jessica stumbled to her feet to meet new terror. For her savior, who had snatched up the imbedded knife with a grunt of satisfaction, towered over her with a twisted grin. It was Martin Hale, the madman who had killed—and no doubt would kill again.
He was not a lovely sight. His clothes were hanging rags, his sinewy arms were torn and scratched by brambles, his face was still lopsided, puffed with bruises.
"So here you are again, my little vixen," he said thickly. "I came just in time to save you from the loving ministrations of that nut over there, didn't I?"
She backed away warily. His eyes were desperate, bitter. Out of the clutches of one madman into the arms of another!
"Please let me alone," she implored. "I don't want—"
"Nothing doing!" he retorted grimly. "You've given me enough trouble with your silly foolishness. This time—"
THE man must have had the instincts of a wild animal. For just as the first whisper of rustling sound reached the threshold of Jessica's consciousness he had whipped to one side, was a leaping arrow in the darkness.
A gun blasted the clearing with echoing thunder. Martin Hale shrieked with pain in the depths of the trees; a heavy body fell headlong; then there was awful silence.
"Got him!" Al's voice rose triumphantly. He stepped into the open glade, the heavy forty-five still smoking in his hand. Other guards crowded behind him.
"I wouldn't act so pleased, Al," one of them remonstrated. "Doc Dorn won't be too tickled to find such a good meal ticket like Marty Hale done in."
"I ain't so sure," Al retorted cryptically. "Maybe the guy's worth as much to him dead as alive." Then his red-rimmed eyes fell on the limp figure of Henry Littell. "Hey!" he cried in alarm. "There's our prize looney! Jeez, if he's kicked in... quick, some of you guys. Grab him and hustle him back to the hospital. He looks as though he still has life in him!"
Jessica flattened her slender form against a protecting tree. If only they didn't see her; if only they would go away before...
But Al lurched forward with surprising speed, caught her bare arm in a wrenching grip. "By cripes!" he roared, "here she is, trying to hide out on us. That's swell! Rounded up the whole kaboodle of 'em. Doc'll sure be tickled now."
The others had lifted the feebly twitching body of Littell, had started heavily through the woods. The girl twisted and squirmed, trying to break loose, but the ape-like guard caught her undraped body in a bear hug, crushed her tingling breasts to himself. Lust flared in his piggish eyes. "So that's the way you feel?" he mumbled feverishly. His thick lips fumbled for hers.
Jessica fought, cried out, pounded on his brutish face with beating fists. But he was too much for her; she felt herself slipping, falling, overborne...
"Al!"
The name slashed through the night, keen as a knife blade, explosive in its intonation.
The orderly let go the girl with a crash, struggled panting to his feet. Fright peered out of his shifty eyes.
"Doc Dorn!" he gasped. "I didn't know—"
"You didn't know I was watching you," Dorn cut in coldly. "You know the rules, don't you? Orderlies and guards are to leave the girls strictly alone. Did you hear that, Al?"
The doctor had stepped into the moonlight. His suavity was gone; in its place a cold, implacable fury blazed.
"Y-yes, sir," Al chattered, in an agony of fear.
"Don't be too hard on him," said another voice suddenly. "By God, she's pretty enough to turn any man's head. Mmmm! Look at that shape."
The stout, heavy-set man who appeared quietly by Dorn's side stared at the moaning girl with greedy, devouring gaze. A new shudder rippled through Jessica at the sight of him. She stumbled blindly to her feet, crouched in the shadows, trying to cover herself. What was Wallace Bland doing in Idlerest? Only that morning he had delivered his mad nephew, Martin Hale; and now, late at night, he was back.
Suddenly the doctor was suave, professional again. "Very well, Bland," he said smoothly. "If you wish to take Al's part..." He swung on the frightened orderly. "You can thank your lucky stars, mug, that Mr. Bland intervened for you. Get started! You know what I want done."
"Y-yes, Doc," Al stuttered, and plunged quickly into the darkness, obviously happy to have escaped punishment.
"As for you," Dorn's pale grey eyes were coldly reflective on Jessica's cowering form, on the panting heave of her bosom. "You broke your employment with me. You tried to run away." He shook his head gravely. "That's a bad example for my nurses. But when they see what happens to you, my dear, I'm certain none other of my staff will ever dare make another break."
Jessica flung herself on her knees before Wallace Bland. "Mr. Bland, for the love of God, help me!" she begged passionately. "Don't let that monster torture me. You're a human being, not a—"
The stout man watched her greedily. His eyes shone with a strange luster. His lips worked. In her extreme fright Jessica had forgotten her nakedness; that the remnants of her dress had slipped almost to her knees.
"Now look," he told her with hungry intonation. "You're a swell-looking girl. Suppose you be real good to me. Maybe I can fix it up with Dr. Dorn."
She sprang to her feet in fury. "Never!" she cried bitterly. "You're as bad as the rest of them. You're a beast."
"All right then," he growled. "I gave you your chance. You're a ninny not to play along with me. Suffer the consequences! I wash my hands of you."
A group of husky, hard-faced guards emerged from the shadows of the trees, closed in upon her. She called desperately on a name as they seized her—the name of a dead man, of a homicidal maniac:
"Marty Hale!"
But there came no answer; how could a dead man answer?
Then she fainted.
IT was the blistering heat that jangled her swimming senses back to painful awareness. Every muscle in her body ached with straining torture; her legs seemed weighted with lead. Still semi-conscious, she felt a curious sensation of swinging, bobbing from side to side. It made her seasick. Then the red hot lances of fire, the sharp singe of roasting flesh, jerked her eyes wide, brought realization into them.
A moan of agony broke from her lips. Her nightmare dream was but a pallid simulacrum of the horrible truth.
Her arms were tightly bound to her body by a cord that bit cruelly into the flesh. It looped upward over a horizontal knife edge, was fastened on the other side to a stout tree on the grounds.
Her legs were stretched downward to the bursting point; heavy iron cannonballs dangled from her tapering ankles. Beneath her a huge cauldron bubbled, fed by a roaring fire of pine logs. The smooth, dark oil within heaved and surged, and nauseous vapors steamed up to her quivering nostrils.
Around the circle of fire men stood, glowing eyes reflecting the red flare of the flames. Guards, orderlies—and in the forefront, Dr. Arnold Dorn and Wallace Bland! Their mouths were slack, their gaze was avid on the suspended girl's undraped charms. The last thin scraps of her garments had been ripped from her; she dangled between Heaven and Hell in utter nudity, her racked beauty incense to their nostrils.
The gibbet, the cauldron of boiling oil, the knife edge from which she hung, had been placed close to the frowning walls of the sanatorium. In the distance, over the trees, the encircling glass-topped wall loomed darkly.
The sweat burst out on her agonized form; the muscles of her legs ached in-supportably from the cruel weights. Back and forth, back and forth, like a heavy pendulum, she swung, her momentum supplied by a guide-rope in the hands of a guard. And every time her shuddering, straining body dipped over the boiling cauldron, the heat blasted up, the hot vapors scalded her delicate skin.
Involuntarily she bent her legs desperately to avoid the torturing pain. She screamed and jerked madly. From above came a tearing, ripping sound. Wildly she thrust back her head, stared upward in sheer horror.
The rope from which she dangled was but a single slender strand. Even as she heaved, even as she swung, it slid back and forth over the keen knife edge that was its fulcrum. The blade scraped, bit deep. The rope held her from a sizzling, agonized death in blazing oil—and each moment it frayed more and more. In but a short time it would give, would precipitate her into the cauldron.
Her pain-swept eyes lifted to the wall of the sanatorium. At each window faces peered out at her—girl's faces, deathly white, stricken with horror. Behind them stood grim orderlies, forcing them to look, keeping them attentive to the gruesome sight. Never thereafter would any of them try rebellion or escape!
Jessica shrieked, implored the watching devils about her to free her from her torture. But no one moved, no one lifted a hand. Back and forth, monotonously, endlessly, each swing thinning the supporting rope, each swing sizzling her blistered thighs.
Wallace Bland licked his lips; his eyes glowed. He seemed to be enjoying himself. "I got to hand it to you, Dorn," he said admiringly. "You show a positive genius for these things. Now if only I were sure young Marty was dead—"
"Al swears he shot him down, heard his death scream," Dorn asserted positively.
"But you can't find the body."
"They're still searching," affirmed the doctor. "He must have tumbled into a gully. It's hard at night—"
"Maybe its better if he's dead," Bland mused. "Then there'd never be a comeback, A dangerous maniac trying to escape, after killing one of your men and making a homicidal attack upon you—of course you'd be justified in shooting him."
"Of course," Dorn agreed softly. "That was in my mind. But what do I get out of it, Bland?"
Hale's uncle grinned wolfishly. "Plenty—as soon as you find the corpus delicti. It's a silly law that says we got to produce it. With Marty decently dead, I'll make application as his executor. I'm his closest living relative. Then I'll sell the invention for a nominal sum to a dummy—in fact to myself; wind up the estate. It's worth millions. And don't worry, Dorn, I'll cut you in."
EVEN in the mist of pain in which she dangled, Jessica heard their muttered voices. The sheer deviltry of what she heard blasted her own pain from her brain. A picture rose hazily before her—of Marty Hale as he had looked when first he was thrust headlong into this den of evil. Remorse racked her frame with agonies equal to those of her torture. She had misjudged him; had believed him a madman. He had died trying to save her against her will. He could have escaped if he had not tried...
Her lips formed a last cry:
"Marty Hale!"
As if in answer came a shout from the engulfing trees. A lean bolt of lightning slammed through the night, blasted among the frightened guards, leaped into the ring of fire. "Coming, Jessica!" the apparition yelled. A knife gleamed in his hands as he sprang—the knife Martin Hale had wrested from Al.
But even as he catapulted for the scaffold a heavy body dived low, caught him at the knees, brought him crashing to the ground. In the next second men swarmed over the prone figure, kicking, slugging viciously.
"My nephew!" Bland screeched and whirled on Dorn. "I thought you said he was dead."
"So Al told me," muttered the doctor. "But he made up for his slip. He caught him just now. They'll shoot him this time—properly."
Bland's eyes narrowed; a thin smile licked over his lips. "Wait!" he ordered. "Don't kill him. I have a better scheme. Tie him up, make him watch what's happening to the girl. He seems to think a lot of her. He'll really go crazy at the sight, and we'll have nothing to cover up; not a single investigation to face."
Dr. Dorn looked at him admiringly. "Say, Bland," he exclaimed, "that's a beautiful idea. Perfect!" He raised his voice in sharp command. "Tie him up, men, and prop him in front of the fire where he won't miss a trick, and the fire'll tickle his toes as well."
"I getcha, Doc!" Al grinned.
In seconds Marty Hale was painfully bound, seated upright against a thrusting, sharpened stake of wood so that every time he leaned back in utter weariness, the keen point stabbed into his spine, jerked him forward. His outstretched feet were barely on the edge of the flaming embers, and already the leather of his shoes began to sizzle.
There he sat, grimacing with pain, staring upward at the dangling, tortured girl he had tried to rescue.
"Forgive me!" she whispered through swollen lips. "I didn't know; I just found out..."
Then her head lolled; she hung limp. The heavy balls of iron forced her shapely legs into the very trough of the cauldron; the oil leaped hungrily up. Marty's eyes widened on the knife edge. The cord was holding by the merest thread. In seconds...
He smashed frantically against his bonds, lurched in agony away from the impalement of the stake behind him. All his plans had gone astray. Jessica Smith would die in frightful torture; and he, himself...
His desperate gaze caught the blue sheen of the little tube that had fallen unheeded from his pocket, had rolled almost to the edge of the fire. Startled, he stared at it. A wild hope flared in his veins.
He looked cautiously around. No one was watching him, all eyes were gloating on the last agonies of the dying girl.
He pushed out with his foot, missed the little tube by an inch. He gritted his teeth, leaned back against the keen point. He felt it enter his muscles; waves of anguish tore at his frame. Yet he did not falter. Back, back, as far as he could lean; while his body slid forward along the ground.
Marty's senses swam with the torture of the entering stake; he saw the dangling girl in a white haze of agony. Yet he kept on pushing his torso backward, inching his legs along. Closer, closer... with a last wild heave that brought surging pain to his body, he lashed out with his foot.
The little cylinder caught the impact, rolled slowly into the fire!
A MOMENT it teetered within the blazing embers. The blue casing glowed redly. Then it burst open with a little puff of sound.
Whoosh! Boom!
A white streamer of fire shot up into the night, high over the clustering trees, high over the encircling walls. A tiny second it hovered in midair; then it exploded into a glare of dazzling light; so white, so brilliant that it paled the fiery blaze beneath, illuminated all the dreadful scene with pitiless fingers of flame.
Blinded, alarmed, they fell back from the searching flare. Cries of fear jittered from their lips. Wallace Bland, snarling, whipped out a gun, swung it on his partner in crime. "What the hell's the meaning of this?" he cried.
Dr. Dorn was taken aback. Yet he had not lost his calm composure. "Put your popgun away, Bland," he said contemptuously. "I've seen those things before. It's a Very Light; they used them in war time."
"But who—what—?"
The doctor's eyes narrowed on the half-fainting, teetering figure of Martin Hale. "He must have had one in his pocket. It got into the fire somehow. The heat exploded it."
Bland's face paled. "Good Lord! Suppose someone saw it outside?"
"It might have been a signal," Dorn agreed. "In that case we'd better work fast." His hand slid into his pocket, came out holding a small but vicious-looking automatic. "Can't waste any time," he remarked. "I'm going to kill them both, get rid of the bodies, scatter the fire. Then if—"
The steel nose of his gun moved up, pointed at the dangling girl. Marty Hale jerked his swimming senses to awareness. Heedless of the stake, of the fire that blistered his toes, he shouted threats, wild imprecations. Dorn was going to shoot Jessica and his aim was straight. There was no mistaking the deadly intent in his eyes. He had been too late; had waited too long to set off the signal. Jessica would be dead, and he would be next. Oddly enough he thought first of the girl; then of himself.
But Dorn only smiled deliberately at his threats, his curses. The knuckle of his trigger finger bent; tightened...
Then the woods seemed suddenly full of shouting men. Flame stabbed out, the trees rocked with concussions of sound. Doctor Arnold Dorn looked surprised. His eyes widened, his pointed beard wagged stiffly. His fingers opened and the gun slid to the ground. Then, silently, without a word, he followed the falling weapon.
Wallace Bland cried out in terror, bolted headlong for the shelter of the trees. Then he too went down, suddenly. The guards whirled, tugging at their holsters. Al's face was a gargoyle of hate. The gun in his hand barked once, twice. Then he pitched forward on his face.
In half a minute it was over. Men swarmed out of the woods, holding smoking revolvers, grim-faced, shocked at what they saw. Men in civilian clothes, but bearing on their granite faces the marks of official authority.
Their leader vaulted over the dead and dying, raced toward the swaying, fainting young man. "Marty!" he cried out in a terrible voice. "By God, if I came too late!..."
"Almost too late, Jim," Marty Hale whispered through pulped lips. "But don't mind me; I'm all right. Get the girl!"
But Jim Manning's fingers were already busy with his knots. "Don't worry, old man," he assured. "My men have cut her down." He shivered, hardened as he was to gruesome sights. "God! I never saw a devil's layout like this before!"
Marty tottered weakly to his feet. His eyes were only for Jessica. Brawny government agents had scattered the embers, snatched the cauldron away, had lifted the girl tenderly to the ground. Coats peeled off, covered her nudity. Remembered terror was still in her eyes, but a pale smile hovered on her lips. "Forgive me, Marty," she said faintly, "for thinking you were—"
"A madman?" he completed, and caught up her poor wounded hand. "I can't blame you for that. Bland's buildup was perfect. It fooled even the Judge. In fact, there were times today when I actually was half insane after what I saw. If it hadn't been for my pal, Jim Manning, one of our country's best-known G-men—"
"FORGET it," Manning cut in, embarrassed. "But why the devil did you wait so long with your signal, Marty? We were hiding outside, as we agreed before they took you away. I couldn't do anything for you in the face of a legal commitment, though I knew damn well you were as sane as I was, and that your uncle was a rat. If things got too hot for you, as you suspected they would, or if you ran into anything that would give the United States jurisdiction over this hell hole, you were to fire off the Very Light."
Marty grimaced. "I had the proof all right. White slavery, Jim! Girls transported from other states, brought here to prostitute themselves in the form of pretended nurses to the assortment of wealthy madmen that Dorn had collected here. It was a racket of huge dimensions. None of his idiots wanted to leave—their lowest animal instincts were pandered to, and their millionaire families were only too tickled at their complaisance; glad to keep on paying for their keep and forget about them. Of course, the relatives, with the exception of my worthy uncle, did not know what was going on."
"But why—" Manning interrupted.
"I'm coming to that," Marty grinned shamefacedly. "Out there in the woods, after I escaped from the guards by pretending to have been shot, I was going to set off the Very Light. But it was gone. I searched frantically through my pockets, could not find it. It must have slipped through a hole into the lining of my coat. It was only when they bound me up, and threw me violently to the ground, that it became dislodged, rolled out so that I could push it into the fire."
Jessica looked up remorsefully at him. "I overheard Bland and that horrible doctor before you came," she whispered. "Your uncle gave the whole plot away. How he fixed it so you would be declared insane; how he intended to steal your invention. It is actually worth millions, he said."
The young man looked at her meaningly. What she saw in his eyes brought a...
"Millions for both of us, Jessica," he told her softly. "It's a new type of radio directional signal. A single call is sufficient to establish both direction and exact distance. It will eliminate almost entirely such disasters as those of Amelia Earhart and the Russian Polar fliers."
He looked at Manning. "Dorn is—"
"Dead as dead can be," the government man said grimly. "He won't have to stand trial. But his underlings will—and Bland. The rat was only winged, but he thought he was dying. He confessed everything to one of my men; it was taken down in black and white and he signed it."
"How about the poor girls in the sanatorium?"
"I've already sent a squad of men up there. The gang of thugs were too scared to fight, and the girls are all waiting to be taken to places of shelter. Poor things; they've been through hell."
"As for the loonies," Jim pursued, "we'll ship them off to state institutions. Nothing else we can do. The law can't touch crazy people for their crimes."
"How about Henry Littell?" Jessica asked quickly. "He's insane enough, and he tried to kill me finally, after I had trusted him. But he's a remarkable man; and I think it was his wife's actions that finally drove him mad."
Marty Hale held her tight. "Littell?" he retorted. "I know that case pretty well. It was in the papers some years ago. You're right; he was a genius in his way. His learning was encyclopedic. In fact, he had practically memorized the Encyclopedia Britannica from cover to cover. I think that's what finally addled his brains. But he had an independent fortune, and his family packed him off to Dorn's Sanatorium."
"But didn't his wife—?"
Marty stared, laughed softly. "Henry Littell had no wife. He was a bachelor!"
Roy Glashan's Library
Non sibi sed omnibus
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