The Avenger 29 - The Nightwitch Devil (10 page)

“He was rather voluble when we turned in that last batch of goons,” said Cole.

Smitty glanced at the Avenger, got a nod, and rose up. He hopped out of the truck into the rain.

Chief Storm of the Nightwitch police searched through his desk drawers again. This time he found the pipe he was looking for, stuck it between his teeth. Rain pattered on the station windows; water gurgled through a drainpipe just outside. “Nothing,” said the chief, “like this has ever happened in Nightwitch.”

“Not in this century,” said Benson. An hour earlier, they had presented Storm with the thugs, identified themselves to him and, over his startled protests, left. Now, satisfied that the kick to Smitty’s head had done no lasting damage, they had returned.

They had told Storm some, but not all, of what they had learned thus far. “Witches,” he said, sucking on the stem of his unlit pipe. “Them four rowdies you brought in for me to lock up, they sure aren’t witches and warlocks.”

“They’ve simply been working for the cult.”

“Witches,” repeated Storm. “Well, I have heard a few rumors ’bout something like that. In a town like this, though, you’re always hearing rumors.”

“These were based on fact.”

“I’ve got to do something, then,” said Chief Storm. “Some old-time practices and beliefs I could let be, but not witchcraft.”

“I think,” said the Avenger, “the cult will cease to be, very shortly.”

“You got more information about this than you’re giving out.”

“Perhaps.”

Storm said, “I checked up on you, Benson, I made a few phone calls.”

“And what did you learn?”

“That I might as well go along with you, play this thing your way,” said Storm.

“By tomorrow,” said Benson, “I may have more to tell you.”

Nodding, the chief said, “By tomorrow we’re probably going to have some government agents hanging around town. You know about that?”

“Yes.”

“So this isn’t all magic spells and broomsticks.”

“It sure as heck ain’t,” said Smitty.

The darkness turned to light. Then everything was black night again, and thunder shook the trees.

“Nothing to fear, princess,” Cole assured Nellie. “They’ve got a whole collection of lightning rods on yon rooftop.”

“Lighting’s never scared me,” said the little blonde.

The rain was falling hard once again, battering down through the branches that interlaced above their heads.

Taking the girl’s arm, Cole guided her through the wooded area that bordered the old McRobb mansion.

Another flash of lightning illuminated the house, which loomed a hundred yards away from them. The mansion was enormous, thick with towers and turrets and spires.

“Sometimes,” said Nellie, “I get the distinct impression that Richard Henry Benson doesn’t believe in the equality of the sexes.”

“I’m sure he knows you’re more than equal, pixie.”

“This job tonight, for instance. Obviously it’s going to be nice and safe,” Nellie complained. “All the fun, that’s going to be at the witch convention.”

Cole grinned. “Don’t be pessimistic, Little Nell. We may find untold adventure awaiting us here in this pile of architectural aberrations.”

“Dubious,” said the girl.

They reached the edge of the woods. A half-acre of tall grass and a great variety of weeds stood between them and the house.

After staring at the place for a moment, Cole said, “No signs of movement, not even a ghostly light.”

“Everybody’s at the meeting,” said Nellie.

“Let’s, therefore, be bold and walk right in the front door.”

Nellie tugged the hood of her black raincoat tighter around her head. “Race you,” she challenged.

The two of them went dashing across the weedy field, pelted by the rain.

The blonde bounded up the wooden front steps a good ten seconds ahead of Cole. “Listening to you panting,” she said.

“Merely subterfuge, pixie,” Cole replied. “I allowed you to win, but I wanted you to think it was because I was a bit winded.”

“Unlikely,” said the girl. With hands on hips she was studying the oaken front door. The brass knocker was in the shape of a lion’s head. The huge doorknob also had the likeness of a lion upon it. “Fond of lions, the McRobbs must have been.”

Reaching around her, Cole turned the knob. It moved. A gentle shove caused the door to swing silently inward. “Disappointing, no
Inner Sanctum
creaks.”

Nellie clicked on the flashlight she’d been carrying in her raincoat pocket. “Look, footprints all over the place.”

Along the right-hand side of the long, bare hall several sets of muddy footprints showed.

“That must be the living room where they deposited the girl,” said Cole.

The doorway was midway along the hall, masked with heavy draperies. The footprints led straight to it.

Cole walked to it and slowly pulled aside the aged purple draperies. He peered into the room.

Lightning struck outside at that instant, filling the room with pale yellow light; There was no one in there among the shrouded furniture.

“No lost ladies here,” remarked Cole.

Nellie shone her flash into the now dark room. “Somebody was in there,” she said. “There are tracks in the dust.” She crossed the threshold. “And you can see here where someone was dragged across the floor. Dragged right into this wall.” The beam of light climbed up the wall from the floor. “You know, a lot of these ancient houses have secret passages, sections of the wall that open into secret places. That could be what we’re dealing with here. Yes, it has to be.”

The room turned sickly yellow again, then thunder rattled the leaded windows.

“What we have to do,” continued Nellie, “is find out how they got this particular wall to open. That shouldn’t be too tough for someone with your self-confessed astuteness, should it?”

There was no reply.

“Cole?” Nellie turned toward the doorway, shining her light on the place where Cole had been.

He was no longer there.

Anne Barley recognized the first witch.

The hooded faces of the other two figures who entered her cell she could not make out. The woman in the lead carried an oil lantern aloft; its flickering, smoky light made deep shadow patterns across the faces of the other two.

“You will rise up and come with us,” ordered the witch in a dulled voice.

“Hulda? Hulda Dolittle,” said Anne. “You’re not involved with these maniacs, are you?”

“The hour is at hand.” Hulda was a heavyset woman of fifty. Her eyes had a blank look, and her lips barely moved when she spoke.

Anne ran to her, took hold of her shoulders. “Do you know what they’re planning to do to me, Hulda? Do you?”

“You will be sacrificed to the Master,” droned the witch in reply.

“This isn’t the Dark Ages, Hulda. What they’re planning, it’s murder.”

“It is the will of the Master,” answered the witch. “It must be done.”

Anne spun away, tried to run around the woman and get to the entryway that they had opened in the wall.

The other two hooded figures were men, large powerful men. They both got hold of her, held her tight by the arms.

“Those who have been chosen,” Hulda told her as she struggled to pull free, “must obey. There is no escape from the will of Satan, no escape from the Power.”

“You’re crazy,” shouted Anne. “All of you. Let me go.”

“You can not escape from that which is ordained,” said one of the men who held her.

It was McClennan, the town postmaster.

Anne kicked him, as hard as she could, in the knee.

The man did not react at all. His eyes, too, were glazed and staring. “Come, the hour is at hand.”

“For the glory of Satan,” said Hulda.

Kicking out again, Anne cried, “Wake up, all of you! Don’t you even realize what you’re doing?”

“For the glory of Satan,” repeated McClennan.

Anne screamed, then cried out. But that did not stop them from carrying her away down a dark stone corridor.

“Hout,” exclaimed MacMurdie. “Here ’tis.”

“What?” asked Dr. Ruyle in the absolute darkness.

“ ’Tis a hair-thin crack in this wall,” said Mac, slapping at the stone. “Ah, and here’s another one right here.”

“Some kind of concealed door?”

“ ’Twell could be.”

Ruyle asked, “Do you think you can open it?”

“Aye, given time.” His fingertips made tiny rasping sounds as he moved them over the wall.

After a few quiet moments, Ruyle said, “It’s possible, isn’t it, that your associates will come searching for you?”

“They should be—some of them at any rate—in Nightwitch by now,” answered Mac. “I telephoned Justice, Inc., before I fell into these skurlies’ hands.”

“You believe these witches are tied in with some kind of espionage, Mac?”

“I do. There’s more than a witch cult operating here.”

“Perhaps so. I don’t know, though, these people of Nightwitch . . . Well, some of them would fall for black magic, for a self-styled Satan who promised their wishes and desires would come true through the power of the Devil. Sabotage, that’s something else again.”

“Only requires one mon, John, to use a coven for his own ends.”

“You mean someone, the Devil leader probably, encouraged the rebirth of the witch cult?”

“Enemy agents have been smuggled into our country along the Atlantic coast since even before the war started. Now if ye saw a stranger roaming the countryside hereabouts at an ungodly hour, ye mot be inclined to telephone the law or the FBI. But if ye saw a lad in a long black cloak, ye mot get back in bed and pull the covers over your head. Figuring ’twas one of your warlock neighbors on his way to a meeting.”

“Yes, I hadn’t thought of that. I was digging into this chiefly because of the potential evil a gathering of witches can do,” said the professor. “Even though black magic has no real power, a great deal of harm can be done in a community by those who believe it does.”

“Aye, that’s but one reason to put a stop to all this.” Mac let out a pleased sigh. “There, I do believe it works on pressure from a mon’s fingers, all ten. Stand back.”

The wall made a slow grinding noise, shuffling open. There was a dimly lit stone hallway beyond.

“Think this is a way out?” whispered Ruyle.

“We’ll try it, anyway,” Mac told him.

The hooded figure walked, oblivious to the weather, to the slashing rain and wind, to the thunder and lightning.

All at once an extra portion of rain descended on the cloaked man.

A second later the Avenger dropped down out of the trees on him.

The man made no sound when Benson hit him. His sharp-featured face was blank, without expression, but he fought ferociously.

Snarling deep in his throat, the warlock clawed at the Avenger, snapped jagged teeth at his throat.

Benson twisted away, bent low. Using the man’s arm as a lever, the Avenger threw him through the rain-filled night.

The cloaked figure, looking like an opening umbrella, sailed across the muddy road and slammed into the top rail of the rail fence.

Still making no sound, he dropped to the roadside and passed out.

The Avenger ran, vaulted the fence, and then dragged the unconscious man under it. He relieved him of his cloak and hood.