Castle Fear (7 page)

Joe stood frozen as the little old lady - who was, he realized a bit too late, actually a small man in disguise - opened the metal door. The machine gun poked Joe again in the ribs as the man said, "Had me worried there for a while. We had three drop-off points set up but passed two of them without a sight of you. Thought I'd have to do something right desperate to get one of you Hardys off alone. But third time lucky, I guess."

He glanced out the open doorway. "There'll be a car waiting for us. When we see a yellow lantern by the tracks, off we go."

"I don't think so, Granny." Joe dropped into a sudden crouch, swinging the hamper with all his strength.

The basket smashed into the gunman's hand, knocking the MAC-10 out of his grasp. It spun away, seemingly sucked into the darkness beyond the doorway.

The metal door stood open and flapping. Now the sound of the speeding train was enormously loud.

Dodging, Joe swung the basket again.

The phony granny glasses flew free, hitting the corridor floor. As the two struggled, the glass lenses were stomped into crunchy fragments.

Joe fought desperately. At least he had succeeded in moving the fight away from the doorway. His opponent fell backward, cracking his head on the wall. Joe moved forward, confident of victory. Unfortunately, he walked right into his enemy's last attack.

An outflung foot caught Joe in the waist. The blow took the wind out of him and sent him staggering backward.

He tried to grab the sides of the doorway. Instead he caught only chilly air.

Joe went sailing off the train.

He twisted as he fell, landing on his side with a tremendous jolt. Landing on a slanting, pebbly slope beyond the tracks, he went rolling downward about fifty feet. Finally he came to a stop beside a dark roadway.

The train went roaring on its way without him.

Frank looked out the compartment window as the train slowed to stop at a small rural station. The brightly lit platform was empty except for a fat man in a long black overcoat. He wore a checkered cap with earflaps and was holding an empty bird cage. Two passengers got off the train, both bundled in shapeless overcoats. Soon the train was pulling out of the station, and they were rolling again through the darkness.

"I guess Joe found his drink, and a place to sit down and enjoy it," Karen said, glancing at her watch.

"When it comes to finding supplies or a place to hang out, Joe has a sixth sense," Frank told her. "He probably found - " Frank managed to cut his voice off before he said, "some pretty girl." Instead, he finished the sentence with, " - a snack to go with his drink."

"You're probably right," Karen said.

Frank sighed. This had been an especially rough day - getting rapped in the head, running around, spending long hours searching for clues. The sounds of the train wheels on the tracks began slowly fading. The rattling and the swaying died down.

With another sigh Frank's head dipped forward.

Karen's hazel eyes were troubled. "He's been gone quite a while," she said quietly, not wanting to wake Frank.

Karen watched the darkness roll by outside for a few more minutes. Finally she got to her feet. "I think I'll go look for him."

It was nearly dawn when Frank and Karen arrived at the small ramshackle hotel two miles from the Beswick train station. The lobby was done in white plaster with moldings on the walls and looked as if it hadn't been renovated since the turn of the century.

Up from behind the ancient mahogany registration desk popped the bald head of a man of about sixty. "Ah, newly weds, I wager," he said, rubbing his plump hands together and chuckling. "Run off and eloped, have you? Well, you couldn't have picked a more scenic spot. Ah, yes, Beswick is an idyllic little place, and the Winterbotham Wayside Hotel is, if I do say so myself, a jewel in the crown of this quaint and attractive village. I happen to be Winterbotham himself." He chuckled once more and slid the leather-bound register across the desk toward them.

"Good morning, Mr. Winterbotham," Frank said. "We'd like separate rooms."

"Don't tell me you're at odds already - and your honeymoon barely under way."

"We're not married. We're here on business."

"Business, you say? Well, then, let me assure you that Winterbotham's Wayside Hotel is known throughout the county of Kent as the businessman's haven." The plump proprietor nodded vigorously. "You'll find us ideally equipped for every kind of commercial endeavor. There are, to cite only one of a multitude of examples, telephones in nearly every room."

He glanced at Frank as if he expected an argument. "The telephone, as I needn't point out to a clever young businessman such as yourself, is a boon to the transacting of business. In addition, there is a very efficient manual typewriter on the premises, and it is available at any hour of the day or night, at a nominal fee, for the typing of the most demanding business documents."

Frank stared tiredly at the man until the speech was finished. "Fine," he said. "Do you have two rooms available?"

"I believe I can accommodate you and the young lady, sir. Yes, I can put you in executive suites twenty-two and twenty-five, which are right next door to each other, in spite of the numbers."

As he signed the register, Frank leaned across the counter. "You seem to know the town well. Are you familiar with Emily Cornwall?"

"Ah, yes, the poor lass," Winterbotham said, sighing. "Miss Emily arrived a matter of two weeks ago and took up residence in the Talbot mansion."

Karen came over, yawning, and signed her name. "Would you mind if I went up to my room, Frank? Otherwise I'm going to zonk out right here."

"Could we have Ms. Kirk's key? Then you could go on with this interesting story."

"Of course. Nearly asleep on her feet, she is." Winterbotham reached into a cubbyhole behind him. "Here you are, miss, room twenty-five. Do you wish me to see you up?"

"No, I'll find my own way," Karen said, taking the heavy brass key.

"Here are the stairs. Climb but two flights and go left from the landing."

"Got it." Karen glanced back, her eyes heavy. "I'll see you in the morning sometime, Frank."

"A very charming young lady," commented Winterbotham after Karen had departed. "Now, where was I?"

"The Talbot mansion," Frank said.

"It's a huge old pile set in the middle of a dozen bleak acres beyond the moors outside of town. Miss Emily has had few visitors and is said to be ailing. Very rich she is, but then money can't buy good health, as many another has learned. Nor good luck either, considering the accident just the other day."

"What sort of accident?" Frank wanted to know.

"Oh, now, it wasn't the young lady, it was her companion, Miss Sheridan." Winterbotham nodded vigorously. "Poor woman was struck down near the shops by a hit-and-run driver while she was out marketing. She languishes at the moment in a hospital two villages away."

"Who's looking after Emily Cornwall?"

"Ah, she had a bit of luck there - was able to hire someone locally to see to her needs until the injured lady is up and about again." He frowned, trying to remember. "A young woman, I believe, named Miss Forman."

"How lucky," Frank said. "Any other new arrivals in town?"

"Well, there's that Professor Hobart," the hotel proprietor answered. "He arrived a month or so ago, just before poor Miss Emily. Leased the old Oscard estate. That's the place most folk hereabouts call Castle Fear."

"Spooky name. Why do they call it that?"

"It's a grim, gray, bleak place, hundreds of years old, perched on a cliff overlooking the sea." Winterbotham shook his head. "Some say it's haunted. There are also those who say it was a smuggler's den in days gone by. Myself, I believe both stories and don't go near there after dark." He smiled a little shame-facedly. "Nor by day, I have to admit. Too many secret passages, tunnels, and such-like around Castle Fear. I wouldn't want to fall into one, not I."

"What's Professor Hobart supposed to be up to?"

"Writing a book, he says, about local folk customs. If you ask me, the folk around here don't have a single custom worth reading about, unless you're daft." Winterbotham shook his head. "And for the life of me I can't see why the professor needs half a dozen burly lads hanging about if all he does is scribble. But I'm the first to admit I've never tried to write a book. Perhaps he's got them keeping the roof up. The whole castle is in a shocking state. I'm surprised it hasn't tumbled down before now."

"Have you seen the professor?"

"Just the once," Winterbotham said. "He's not a bad-looking chap - tall, thin, and blond, with a bit of a mustache. Talked with him a bit about local customs. But I had the impression that he and I would never be close friends, if you know what I mean."