Beyond the Curtain of Dark (v1.0), page 26
Scooter was next to be touched with the idiocy.
A scream from Peggy next morning brought me to my feet with a jerk. Life in the country, where we’d hoped to find peace, was rapidly becoming a nightmare. Leaving Ma Costello in the middle of a garrulous, valiant speech, her head bloody but still unbowed as it were, I raced for the stairs.
“Jay Chase, will you look at this child? What in the world—!”
Our nearest neighbor, Myles Slavitt, was standing in the hall, and in his arms was Scooter, dripping wet Now that the initial sensation was over, Scooter seemed a little bored with it all.
“I faw inna fiss-pool,” he announced matter-of-factly, albeit with a slightly apprehensive eye on me.
We had no time to question him in the ensuing confusion, while we got him upstairs, and dried him, and called the doctor. When the doctor came, he said there was still a little water in Scooter’s lungs, but not much.
“Someone did a little excellent lifesaving work, here,” the doctor observed, “and got the rest of the water out promptly.”
Naturally we thought it had been Slavitt. And though Peggy and I had never liked the man—he was too oleaginous, his manner too ingratiating—still we felt we owed him a debt of gratitude.
The doctor finally left, after putting Scooter to bed.
“And stay there, see?” I said at the door. “I hear you out of that bed inside of an hour, I’ll come up and annihilate you.”
Scooter smiled at me seraphically. And fell asleep. It had been just another incident in his crowded days.
Slavitt was still waiting downstairs.
Well, Scooter, as it transpired, hadn’t fallen into a fishpool. He’d fallen into Myles Slavitt’s swimming pool, near the diving board, where the water is twelve feet deep. And thereby hung a tale, according to Slavitt.
He seemed deeply puzzled by it all. “I didn’t see him fall in. I was shaving in the upstairs bathroom, and I just happened to look out the window and see the little fella come up for what must have been the second or third time. Now "I'm a heavy man, as you can see, and the pool is a long roundabout way from the house. There was no one else in sight. I thought the little fella was a goner, sure. It must have been all of ten minutes before I reached the pool, though I ran as fast as I could.”
Peggy shivered, and moved closer to me.
“Well, sir,” Slavitt said, bewildered. “When I got there, the kid was sitting on the edge of the pool, dripping wet and coughing a little, but otherwise okay. Now the water is low, and it’s a good two-foot reach to grab the edge of the pool from inside. There’s an overhang and it’s quite a little job for a full-grown man to drag himself up. And the ladder out of the pool is ’way off at the shallow end. Besides, the kid couldn’t swim, could he?”
“No,” I said. I was feeling kind of peculiar, and doing a little puzzled thinking myself.
Slavitt nodded his head. “Then how did the little fella get out?” he asked triumphantly.
I shook my head slightly at Peggy, who looked as if she were about to speak. I thought I knew what she was going to say, and there was no use letting Slavitt think we were out of our minds.
“Somebody must have pulled him out,” I ventured.
“That’s just it!” Slavitt said. “There wasn’t anybody around at all. Nobody’s going to save a kid that size from drowning, and then just walk off and leave him, are they? It don’t make sense.”
“Well, who pumped the water out of his lungs? You?”
“No. He was all right when I got there, I tell you. Yet somebody must have done it Who?”
There wasn’t any answer. At least, no answer either Peggy or I cared to make to Slavitt.
Well, there was nothing to do but wait for our neighbor to leave, and Scooter to awaken from his nap so that we could question him. In the meantime, we were grateful to Slavitt, so Peggy rang for drinks.
It’s strange to remember now that Slavitt’s kindly errand of mercy was really the starting point for the tragedy that was to follow.
Mayaya came in with the tray of drinks, neat and trim in her mulberry uniform. She looked the ideal maid, except for the turban of bonbon yellow in which her head was wrapped.
I didn’t like the look that came into Slavitt’s face when he saw her, nor the way his eyes followed her as she moved about. I sensed that Mayaya was aware of his gaze, too, and resented it. Peggy was at the far end of the long living room, pouring salted nuts into a silver compote, and after a hasty glance in her direction, Slavitt nodded at Mayaya and said to me:
“Likely looking gal. Colored?”
I said, “Yes,” shortly.
Slavitt chuckled, and said too loud, “Dark meat’s sweetest, eh?” with a nudge and a leer at me.
It was hard to remember the man was a guest in the house. Peggy heard, and looked up, frowning. Mayaya shot him a venomous glance. I ached to poke him in the nose, but contented myself with changing the subject abruptly.
Myles Slavitt had a thick hide, but even he realized he’d spoken out of turn, and he flushed a little. It was an ugly scene that left us all feeling acutely uncomfortable. Nevertheless the unpleasant glow remained in Slavitt’s eyes whenever they rested on Mayaya as she passed through the hall.
I don’t like to remember that I was the one who first spoke of the town meeting to be held the following night. For I can’t help feeling that in doing so I played right into Slavitt’s hand.
God knows why I urged Slavitt to attend. I must have been talking hastily, thoughtlessly, in my attempt to fill the awkward silence that had settled upon us after the man’s earlier unpleasant remarks. I wished heartily that the fool would leave.
“My wife and I always go,” I said, speaking of the town meeting. “Nothing very important ever comes up, but now that we own property here, we feel it’s our duty.”
Myles admitted he’d never before gone to any of the meetings, but he more or less promised to put in an appearance the following night.
Peggy and I didn’t protest when he finally made a move to leave. I went with him to the hall, and Mayaya was there, holding the door open for him which was unfortunate.
Apparently our stupid neighbor was a man who never learned.
He laid a too-familiar hand on Mayaya’s arm, and said, “Those were fine drinks, girl.”
Mayaya didn’t cower. She bore herself with dignity. But she couldn’t resist a glance of appeal at me.
Well, he’d been nice about Scooter, but there are limits to gratitude. I removed Myles’ hand from her arm, ungently, and all but shoved him through the door. I’d had enough of him. He Mustered a little on the doorstep, but when I stepped through the door, his voice trailed off, and he slunk away.
“Ugh!” Peggy said from the living room archway. “That goon!”
“Let’s forget him,” I said. "I'm sorry, Mayaya.’
“It’s quite all right, Mr. Chase, I understand,” she said quietly. “Thank you.”
“By the way,” I said. “I wish you’d keep a closer watch on Scooter. You know what happened when he wandered away this morning.”
“But he didn’t wander, Mr. Chase.” Mayaya protested softly. “I knew he was gone. And I knew the little green men would watch over him. And you see, they did.”
My head was beginning to spin. And I knew Peggy’s was, too, judging from the expression on her face.
Scooter was awake when we went up to the nursery, and fidgety to get out of bed. He seemed none the worse for his experience, and was a little restive under our questions.
Yes, he remembered going across the lawn to Slavitt’s. Well, no, he didn’t think he’d been so very naughty, ’zackly. Mayaya had told him he might leave her side. The little green men, she’d said, would watch over him.
Peggy and I exchanged glances over Scooter’s head.
And there’d been a leaf floating on the surface of the pool, like a little boat. And, in reaching for it, he’d fallen in. And water got up his nose. And it hadn’t been very nice, according to Scooter. He couldn’t breathe. And he couldn’t see. And finally everything went black, like at night-time.
“I was afraid—just a little bit,” he assured us solemnly.
Peggy hugged him. “Of course you were, darling. But now, try to remember—real hard. This is the important part. How did you get out of the pool?”
Scooter pushed out his lower lip, and squinted his eyes. He was thinking. He opened his eyes. “The little green men pulled me out!” he announced at last.
“But, darling, are you sure? Did you see them? Actually?”
Well. He was pretty sure he’d seen them. But he wasn’t very sure. And could he get up now please?
It was hopeless. After all, he was only three. It was impossible to tell what he’d actually seen, and what his imagination was prompting him to believe he’d seen, fired as it had been by Mayaya’s remarks.
Later, Peggy and I had a private confab behind the closed door of our room.
“I guess there’s nothing else for it,” I said. “We’ll have to let her go before we all wind up batty.”
“But Jay, dear, she’s so wonderful in every other way.”
I raised an eyebrow. “She—or the little green men?”
“Jay! You don’t really believe in diem, and you know it.”
“Do you?”
“Certainly not!” Peggy was indignant. But after a minute, she added thoughtfully, “Still, you have to admit—”
“Oh, for God’s sake!” I shouted irritably. “You see7 She has us all headed for the nut factory.”
“Well, let’s wait till the end of the week, at least. I’ll have the Nellis illustrations done by then, if I hurry, and—well.”
So we left it at that. And there’s no use now blaming ourselves for not having fired Mayaya immediately.
We had dismissed Myles Slavitt so completely from our minds that we didn’t even notice he wasn’t at the town meeting next night
There was the usual argument about whether or not a traffic signal was needed at First and Main. And Jed Stout was warned sternly again he’d better fix that there hole in the sidewalk in front of his store afore somebody broke their neck—at which Jed looked blank. (He was becoming adept at looking blank by this time.)
Peggy and I left at eleven, a little smug with the sense of a duty conscientiously performed, and highly amused all the way home at Jed Stout’s callous unconcern for the necks of his fellow-townsmen. I remember we made an hilarious bet as to whether or not Jed would relent at the next meeting.
Unfortunately, our gaiety wasn’t to last.
We’d no sooner turned off the highway onto our private lane, and the house loomed up distinctly before us, than we knew something was radically wrong. Every light in the place was out. Even if Mayaya had retired early, she had instructions to leave the hall light burning. And it wasn’t like her to be forgetful.
Peggy grew alarmed at once.
“Jay, hurry!” She sat on the edge of the seat. “I have a feeling—”
I was uncomfortable myself. I stepped on it, and we covered the last mile of private lane in nothing flat. Gravel spit under the tires as we jerked to a stop. We could hear Scooter sobbing softly to himself in the hall, even before we could get the door open. I was all thumbs, and the damned key wouldn’t go into the lock, and it didn’t help any to have Peggy needling me with, “Oh, hurry up!” accompanied by nervous prods in the back.
The door opened at last, and we practically fell over ourselves getting into the hall. I snapped the light on, and Scooter rushed into Peggy’s arms, howling.
“Oh, my darling! What’s the matter?” Peggy cried.
God, the hall was a sight! There were streaks of blood all over the white marbelized linoleum, the mahogany chairs were overturned, and the Chippendale mirror had been knocked from the walls and lay in fragments.
But Scooter was all right, though terrified.
While Peggy tried to quiet him, I went into the darkened living room, and tripped over something on the floor just beyond the arch. I fumbled for the ceiling light switch, found it. And then I was calling sharply to Peggy, “You stay out there in the hall.”
I paid no attention to her startled questions.
Mayaya was lying on the floor before me, face down. I turned her over gently, though there was no real need of gentleness, for she was dead. Apparently she’d been choked to death. There wasn’t a scratch on her.
Then why all the blood in the hall?
I was mystified.
I switched off the light again, and went to the phone in the hall, to call Doc and the police. When I’d got the two numbers at last, I spoke as quickly and briefly as possible.
Peggy overheard. “You mean—he’s been murdered?”
“She certainly didn’t strangle herself.”
Scooter was still sobbing a little, and babbling of a “great, big man.”
“But, Jay, who—?”
I was beginning to think I knew. But Peggy was white and shivering, so I kept my mouth shut about my suspicions. I said instead, “You go upstairs, Peg. I’m going to follow these bloodstains. They seem to lead outside.”
“I won’t stay in this house with a corpse!” Peggy announced flatly. “I’m coming with you.”
I couldn’t argue her out of it And, anyway, she was probably safer near me. Still holding Scooter, she followed me to the car where I got a flashlight
There were stains all over the doorstep, and the gravel driveway was streaked with them, leading to the left towards Slavitt’s place.
Peggy gripped my arm. “Jay! Slavitt! Of course!”
I nodded grimly. I wanted to get my hands on Slavitt before the police came. He’d be too safe with the police.
We started off toward the Slavitt estate, following the bloodstains, but I wasn’t quite prepared for what I found.
For I found Slavitt all right. The flash lighted up something just over his lot line. I turned it quickly aside, and said to Peggy, “Stay back here. I’m only going a few steps farther on. Don’t let Scooter see, and don’t look yourself.”
I’d had just a glimpse in the momentary glare of the flash, but it had been enough. When I was sure she wouldn’t follow, I went ahead gingerly.
He was lying there, face down, and his clothing had been shredded from his body. I needed only one sickened closer glance at the raw, red bleeding mass of pulp to know that he was forever beyond help—or further punishment. God, what a way to die! He’d been literally skinned alive by what must have been hundreds of tiny knives wielded by who knows whose hands.
The hands of the little green men?
Yes. They’d been too late to save Mayaya, but they’d revenged themselves horribly upon Slavitt. I’m positive. For, you see, there was something else.
Peggy took one glance at my face when I reached her side again, and mercifully asked no questions. It wasn’t until we were back at the house, waiting for the police, that she noticed how tightly Scooter’s hands were clenched.
“Jay, Scooter seems to have something in his hand.”
He was still hysterical, poor kid. We had to pry his hand open, for he kept it clenched convulsively. But we took at last from his small moist palm, the tiny lifeless figure of a little green man.
“I found him on the floor,” Scooter sobbed. “The big man hurted him, and I picked him up—”
I have it here in the lower right hand drawer of my desk in a pint Mason jar full of alcohol. A gruesome souvenir, some might say, but I look upon it as a talisman. And—who knows?—some day I may go to Trinidad…
FOR THE BLOOD IS THE LIFE
By Francis Marion Crawford
We have dined at sunset on the broad roof of the old tower, because it was cooler there during the great heat of summer Besides, the little kitchen was built at one comer of the great square platform, which made it more convenient than if the dishes had to be carried down the steep stone steps, broken in places and everywhere worn with age. The tower was one of those places built all down the west coast of Calabria by the Emperor Charles V early in the sixteenth century, to keep off the Barbary pirates, when the unbelievers were allied with Francis I against the Emperor and the Church. They have gone to ruin, a few still stand intact, and mine is one of the largest. How it came into my possession ten years ago, and why I spend a part of each year in it, are matters which do not concern this tale. The tower stands in one of the loneliest spots in Southern Italy, at the extremity of a curving rocky promontory, which forms a small but safe natural harbour at the southern extremity of the Gulf of Policastro, and just north of Cape Scalea, the birthplace of Judas Iscariot, according to the old local legend. The tower stands alone on this hooked spur of the rock, and there is not a house to be seen within three miles of it. When
I go there I take a couple of sailors, one of whom is a fair cook, and when I am away it is in charge of a gnomelike little being who was once a miner and who attached himself to me long ago.
My friend, who sometimes visits me in my summer solitude, is an artist by profession, a Scandinavian by birth, and a cosmopolitan by force of circumstances. We had dined at sunset; the sunset glow had reddened and faded again, and the evening purple steeped the vast chain of the mountains that embrace tbe -Wo gulf to eastward and rear themselves higher and higher toward the south. It was hot, and we sat at the landward comer of the platform, waiting for the night breeze to come down from the lower hills. The colour sank out of the air, there was a little interval of deep-grey twilight, and a lamp sent a yellow streak from the open door of the kitchen, where the men were getting their supper.
Then the moon rose suddenly above the crest of the promontory, flooding the platform and lighting up every little spur of rock and knoll of grass below us, down to the edge of the motionless water. My friend lighted his pipe and sat looking at a spot on the hillside. I knew that he was looking at it, and for a long time past I had wondered whether he would ever see anything there that would fix his attention. I knew that spot well. It was clear that he was interested at last, though it was a long time before he spoke. Like most painters, he trusts to his own eyesight, as a lion trusts his strength and a stag his speed, and he is always disturbed when he cannot reconcile what he sees with what be believes that he ought to see.
