DEATH ISLAND
IT was late in the afternoon when Harry Vincent approached the vicinity of Lake Marrinack. Certain events had caused him to delay.
In the lobby of the Baronet Hotel, he had been sure that some one was watching him, even though he could not discover the invisible observer.
On that account he had taken a taxicab to the Grand Central Station; and on the way, he had noticed that another cab was following.
Losing himself in the labyrinth of passages leading to the subway, Harry eventually had taken the shuttle to the West Side subway, and had thus reached the Pennsylvania Station, where he had boarded a train for Long Island.
All this had meant delay; he had missed the Bridgeport Ferry, and had been forced to wait idly in his car. Detours in Connecticut had further retarded his trip. But now the road map showed Lake Marrinack was near by.
Harry pulled the car to the side of the road, and took another glance at the map. He had studied it on the ferry; but he had forgotten certain details.
There was a town called Marrinack, a short distance from the lake. The road continued past the town, and skirted the shore of the lake. Harry decided that the town was the proper place to make inquiries.
His instructions were simply to report to Professor Arthur Whitburn. Harry had made no phone call to Claude Fellows, to-day; yet he felt that he already had certain information.
The message from the mysterious woman was a sure indication that he was going to meet the right Whitburn.
This expedition promised danger. Harry pondered over the circumstances as he drove easily along the narrow, winding highway.
He remembered the last journey of this sort that he had made in behalf of The Shadow. That had been an eventful trip.
It was then that he had met Vic Marquette, the secret-service agent. He and Marquette had been captured by counterfeiters, and rescued by The Shadow. Harry wondered what had become of Vic Marquette, for the secret-service agent was a man of mystery himself. Even his associates could not keep track of him. Marquette was a man who played a lone hand. Harry had met him on that one occasion only; since then he had never heard of Vic Marquette.
The houses of the town of Marrinack appeared in the distance as Harry reached the top of a small hill. Unconsciously, Harry increased the speed of the car.
He was nearing his destination. He suddenly felt the urge of adventure.
THE town proved to be a tiny hamlet. Harry stopped before the general store, and alighted from his car. He entered, and spoke to the proprietor, a middle-aged man, who replied with a broad New England accent.
“I am looking for the home of Professor Whitburn,” explained Harry. “I understand that he lives on an island in the lake near here. Is that correct?”
The storekeeper nodded.
“Yeah,” he answered. “You mean the old professor. He lives on Death Island.”
“Death Island?” Harry’s question showed surprise.
“That’s the name of the place,” said the storekeeper tersely. “You can’t drive out to the island, though. The professor has a telephone. Call him up, if you want. He has a motor boat on the island.”
Harry went to the telephone. It was an obsolete contrivance, with a handle on the side, to ring for the operator. It took him several minutes to obtain the connection with Professor Whitburn’s house.
A gruff voice answered.
“I’d like to speak to Professor Whitburn,” said Harry.
“Professor is busy,” came the reply. “Who is calling him?”
“My name is Harry Vincent — “
“Oh, you’re the man he’s expecting. Where are you now?”
“Down in the village.”
“Come up to Harvey’s Wharf. They’ll tell you where it is. The motor boat will be there to meet you — “
“What shall I do with my car?” questioned Harry.
“You’ll have to leave it in the village garage,” was the reply. “Get a man to drive up with you. Let him take the car back. There’s no place to keep it up here.”
Concluding the conversation, Harry turned to question the storekeeper. He noted that the proprietor was talking with two old men, both of whom appeared to be natives of the district. Their conversation ceased when Harry approached.
“Where’s the village garage?” asked Harry.
“Across the street,” said the proprietor.
“Guess I’ll have to leave my car there,” Harry remarked. “I’m going out to visit Professor Whitburn.”
One of the old men removed his clay pipe from his mouth, and advanced a question.
“You know the old professor, eh?” he asked. “Been out there before?”
“If I had been out there before,” smiled Harry, “I wouldn’t be asking the way to the place.”
The old man laughed; but he shot a significant glance at the storekeeper, who made a quick motion indicating silence. Harry detected this, and was too curious to let the matter pass.
“What’s the island like?” he questioned.
The proprietor did not reply; but the old man took advantage of the opening wedge in the conversation.
“They call it ‘Death Island,’” he replied.
“Why?”
“I don’t just know. It’s always been called Death Island. But lately it’s been kinda livin’ up to the name they give it.”
“How’s that?”
“They say two men have died there in the past six months. Ain’t nobody seems absolutely sure about it; the coroner knows, I s’pose. He’s been out to see the professor. But it’s been kept kinda hushed.”
“So Professor Whitburn does not live alone?”
“No, sir. He’s got three or four men out there with him. Don’t know none of ‘em. All strangers round here. That’s what we can’t just figger.
“S’pose he needs work done. Why don’t he hire some of the folks here in town? ‘Stead of that, he brings in strangers.
“Well, they’re welcome. There ain’t none of the boys round here wants to work for Whitburn, now, though lots of ‘em would ha’ taken a job when first he come here.”
The old man ended his excited sentences by replacing his clay pipe in his mouth. He puffed furiously; then gazed questioningly past Harry and blinked his eyes.
Harry sensed that the storekeeper was signaling to the old fellow, prompting him to be quiet. Evidently the conjecture was correct; for the native became suddenly thoughtful.
“How long has Professor Whitburn lived on Death Island?” asked Harry.
The old man shook his head.
“I can’t just recollect,” he said.
“Did he come here alone?”
“Don’t believe I recollect that, either.”
HARRY left the store, and went across the road to the garage. The building was a converted stable. It had space for several cars. Harry arranged to leave his coupe there.
The garage owner was away; but the man on duty, who did mechanical work and attended to the small filling station, volunteered to drive him to Harvey’s Wharf.
The fellow expressed mild surprise, when Harry stated where he was going. Then he climbed into the coupe, and Harry drove along the road.
“You goin’ over to see Professor Whitburn?” asked the man.
“Yes,” replied Harry.
“Ain’t many goes over to see him.”
“Why not?”
“The old man don’t seem to like visitors.”
“They call his place Death Island. Why?”
“It’s always been called that,” said the man. “Folks say that there was an Indian massacre there — back before the Revolution. Lot of white people killed. The place has been kinda jinxed ever since.”
Harry looked at the man, encouraging him to say more.
“There’s only one house on the island,” the garage man stated. “Built more than a hundred years ago. They say highwaymen used to hide their stuff there. When I was a kid, we used to go over and dig around. We never found nothing, though.
“Then some fellow from the city bought the place — fifteen years ago, I reckon. Lived there in the summer. Only a couple of years, though. He was murdered there.
“After that, nobody went around the place, until this here professor took it, last year. Queer old duck, he is. Well, he’s welcome to the place. I wouldn’t take it if it was given to me.”
“Why not?” questioned Harry.
“Well, for one thing,” the man replied, “folks say it’s haunted. I ain’t no believer in ghosts — but if ghosts would hang out anywhere, it would be on Death Island.
“Some folks say it was ghosts killed the fellow who come there fifteen years ago. An’ lately — well, I’ve heard things said by people who ain’t superstitious.”
“What, for instance?”
“Strange kinds o’ noises out over the lake. Little blinkin’ lights, up over the island.
“One fellow — I ain’t sayin’ who — tells me he was out in a rowboat, one cloudy night. Somethin’ come right up outa the water, an’ hissed over his head. Then it plopped in again.”
“It might have been a large fish.”
“No fish woulda acted the way he says. He was scared right, I tell you. He… Whoa, boy! Turn left here for the wharf.”
Harry applied the brakes, and turned the car into a dirt road, that led through a thick woods. The sun had nearly set, and it was dark beneath the trees. Harry turned on the bright headlights.
His companion was silent. The car moved almost noiselessly, as Harry steered it slowly along the narrow, winding road. Following his companion’s talk of ghosts and eerie happenings, the woods seemed filled with spectral stillness.
Suddenly they turned into a clearing. The road ended on the shore of a lake, where the waters sparkled beneath the rays of the setting sun.
In front of them was a small wharf; beyond — a mile out in the lake — towered a tree-clad island. A thin wisp of smoke curled upward from the trees, indicating the presence of a house.
“See them rocks?”
Harry’s companion pointed to the headland of the island, which was a solid mass of stone, rising to a height of thirty feet. Blackened flaws in the rocky front gave it a peculiar appearance.
“Looks like a big skull, don’t it? Some folks say that’s why it’s called Death Island.”
HARRY noted the resemblance. In the mysterious, dulling light which now hung over the lake, the rocky headland looked amazingly like a monstrous death’s head, its sightless eyes directed toward the wharf. Harry felt a creepy feeling come over him.
The features of the huge skull seemed more pronounced in the settling gloom. They were intensified as Harry watched.
Neither he nor his companion spoke. Death Island seemed to hold a fascinating spell that cast its influence over them.
The chugging of a motor brought Harry from his reverie. A boat had appeared in front of the island. It was speeding across the water toward the wharf.
“Comin’ for you,” observed his companion.
Harry repressed a shudder. The man’s words, spoken suddenly in the semidarkness, seemed to carry a hidden significance.
The boat grew larger; then it neared the wharf. Harry clambered from the coupe, and took out his traveling bag.
The garage man backed the car, and turned toward the road. In a few seconds he was gone.
The boat docked at the wharf. Harry approached and eyed its single occupant.
The man grunted in greeting. His appearance was well-suited to the environment. He was stockily built, and roughly dressed. His face was covered with a heavy beard, of pronounced blackness.
Harry entered the boat; the man turned it from the wharf, and they chugged across the lake.
Death Island loomed more formidably than before. The skull-like features of the rock seemed to increase in size, until they were almost beneath the overhanging bluff.
The man turned off the motor. The boat coasted along, and passed the rocky headland. As they glided through the still water, Harry could not detect a single sound.
A small dock shone white as they came into the darkness of overhanging trees. The boat came to a stop; Harry stepped on the dock, and the man tossed his bag after him.
While he waited for his strange companion to tie up the boat and conduct him to the house, Harry Vincent tried to study his surroundings.
But, this was now impossible. Daylight had faded; all that was visible before Harry’s eyes was the beginning of a path that led up a steep hill.
Strange, gloomy, and forbidding, Death Island was as silent as death itself.