The Avenger 36 - Demon Island (8 page)

“Does that mean we get a free ride on the merry-go-round?”

“It means,” said a voice behind them, “that you’ve found something you weren’t supposed to find. And you’re in very serious trouble.”

Terence O’Malley shuffled again through the small stack of new publicity stills. He wasn’t seeing them; his mind was elsewhere.

He got up and made another circuit of his room. It was twilight and the fog was rolling in outside.

The thing is, he said to himself, she’s performing okay. That scene she did this afternoon with Heather was damn good. If I tell anybody what I know . . . what I suspect, they’ll haul Fanny away and I’ll have half a picture and no more second lead to play in the rest of it.

O’Malley crossed to the window. Fog was filling in the spaces between the forest and the castle. But that dead guy down there . . . she must be involved in that somehow. She was out there when the guy, whoever he was, got killed.

Now there were cops to contend with, too. Lt. Bonner and his men. Even if O’Malley could persuade the Avenger to let him finish his picture before doing anything about Fanny, the police would never stand still for that. Hollywood cops you could maybe talk around, but not these boys.

And Fanny maybe knows something about what happened to Cole, O’Malley reminded himself. You can’t let your friend just disappear . . . even to save a movie.

He tossed the photos on his bed and went out of the room.

At Fanny Fiddler’s door he stopped and knocked.

“Miss Fiddler isn’t receiving today,” came the voice of the young actress.

“It’s Terry. I want to talk to you.”

“Couldn’t it wait?”

“No.”

The door opened, accompanied by a sigh from the dark-haired girl. “I’m really not in the mood for a pep talk.”

“This has nothing to do with your work,” said the director, stepping by her and into her room. “Although it does have something to do with the movie. With what happens to the movie.”

Fanny slumped into a straightback chair. “You sound like you’re going to ask me to put some money into the thing.”

“Look, Fanny, we’re both wise guys. Okay, agreed. Now knock it off and listen to me.” O’Malley faced her. “Nobody else seems to know about this . . . but I do. You were out in the forest the night this guy downstairs got killed.”

“Who says?”

“You—and don’t ask me why—got dressed up in one of the costumes from the wardrobe room,” he told her. “Then you went out into the night. Didn’t get back until way after midnight.” He moved nearer to her. “You were out there when the guy got killed.”

Fanny wouldn’t look at him. “You’re no cop,” she said in a distant voice. “You’ve got no right to—”

“Fanny, I don’t want to give this to the police. But I may have to.” He got close enough to put his hands on the arms of her chair. “Cole Wilson is a very close friend of mine. I think you know something about what happened to him.”

“But I don’t, Terry, I really don’t.”

“What about the dead man?”

“I didn’t . . .” She tilted forward, rested her head against him, and began to cry. “Terry, I don’t know what I did. I’m not conning you, honestly. Something . . . something happens to me. I don’t know what it is. I really do just black out. I came to the other morning when Candy spotted me. And last night I woke up in the wardrobe room, changing out of that dress and back into my night things. Honestly, I don’t remember anything . . . except . . .”

“Except what?”

“Nothing.” She pulled back from him, shaking her head.

O’Malley walked away from her. “I guess I sound like your typical heartless Hollywood type, Fanny, but I want to finish this picture. You really don’t know where Cole Wilson is?”

The girl wiped at her cheek with her fingertips. “I don’t, Terry. Whatever’s happening to me . . . it has nothing to do with him.”

“Okay,” said O’Malley. “I’ll keep quiet for a while longer. And maybe, Fanny, I can help you.”

“I don’t think anybody can,” she said.

“He’s dead, that’s where he is,” announced Stark angrily.

“So serious?” said Cole. “That’s too bad. And how did you find out that news?”

“I got ways of learning stuff. I know more about this island than anybody alive,” said Stark.

“Another accident, was it?”

“Somebody choked him.” Stark grunted as he settled onto a stool.

“This reminds me of an Agatha Christie novel,” said Cole. “Group of folk on an island and one by one they perish. A great plotter is Mrs. Christie.”

“I don’t need any more of your lip right now.”

Cole said, “This is the hour when the late lamented Tucker brought me my evening meal.”

“You can starve, for all I care.”

“Come now, you don’t want my death on your hands.”

Muttering, Stark got up and fetched a box of crackers from a shelf. He slammed them down on the table. “There, chow down.”

“I have been known to pick up a handkerchief in my teeth whilst performing feats of bareback riding,” said Cole, with a grin. “However, I prefer to use my hands for eating. So much more civilized, don’t you think?”

“If it wasn’t for the dough I’d get off this dump of an island right now. It’s been nothing but headaches.”

“Especially for poor old Tucker.”

“Shut up.” Stark went around behind Cole and went to work on the ropes which held his hands.

“Not that I don’t sympathize with you, old fellow. You’ve had incredibly bad luck on this particular caper. I mean, you’ve already lost fifty percent of your staff . . . and Morrison is late for dinner.”

“That fat slob is late for everything. There, your mitts are loose. Now eat and make it snappy.”

As Cole brought his hands around to massage the circulation back into them he flicked a switch on his belt buckle. The buckle contained a very powerful two-way radio. He hadn’t tried to use it before now because he knew that the rest of his Justice, Incorporated, teammates were far away, in Manhattan. Now, though, some days had passed and perhaps someone had come westward in search of him.

“It may well be that living underground is what makes you so cranky, my dear Stark,” Cole said in a louder voice. “Ah, yes, life down here beneath Demon Island in this abandoned bootlegger’s hideaway is not the most stimulating thing in the world.”

“I ain’t deaf. Shut up and eat your crackers.”

“See, you prove my point,” continued Cole in an even louder voice. “Living down here has soured you. What you need is plenty of sunshine.”

“Are you going to pipe down or am I going to smack you one?”

“How’s that again?” Cole put one of his free hands to his ear. “I’m afraid being down here under the island is starting to have an effect on my hearing.”

“Listen, you—”

Gunshots from directly above distracted him.

Fat Morrison had stepped across the sward with small, careful steps. “Now then, let’s have a look at you,” he said. “It’s unfortunate you’ve stumbled onto one of our hidden entrances by accident.”

“It’s no accident,” Smitty assured him.

“I take it you are movie people.”

“Yeah, that’s right,” replied the giant. “I’m Tyrone Power and she’s Zasu Pitts.”

“Very whimsical,” said Morrison, his .38 revolver covering them.

“We might as well level with you,” said Nellie. “We’re with the San Amaro police and we’re here investigating the murder of one of your men.” The little blonde guessed that the dead man back at the castle had been tied in with this fat man here.

Morrison gasped. “What do you mean? You don’t mean Tuck . . .”

“Oh, didn’t you know he’d been strangled?” asked the girl.

“No, I . . . well, we needn’t stretch this discussion out now. Police or movie stars, I’m afraid you’ll have to . . . what was that?”

Smitty’s belt buckle had made a small buzzing sound, meaning that someone was trying to contact him.

“Only my stomach growling,” the giant explained, rubbing at his middle and clicking on the radio. “Always happens when I have hot tamales and cold pork chops for breakfast.”

“Ugh,” murmured Morrison.

“How’s that again?” came Cole’s voice out of the tiny radio speaker.

Morrison made the mistake of glancing around, trying to see who had spoken.

Smitty moved. He moved very swiftly for a man of his bulk. “Let’s drop that,” he suggested, chopping down on Morrison’s gun hand with his hand.

“Yowl” The fat man dropped the weapon into the thick grass, howling with pain.

Smitty dived to retrieve the gun. That turned out to be a mistake on his part.

The fat man was not as hurt as he was pretending. In fact, he was shipshape enough to kick the giant in the head when he bent to get the .38.

“Now, my lumbering friend,” said Morrison, the gun back in his hand.

He’d forgotten about Nellie. The little blonde hit him in his soft middle, at the end of a flying tackle.

The gun went off. But by that time Nellie had the fat man’s arm twisted up. Some leaves fell down on them as the bullet whistled up into the darkening sky.

Smitty was okay again. With an angry roar he grabbed Morrison away from Nellie and threw him.

A tree trunk halted the fat man’s flight. The gun went off once more as it fell from his hand.

Morrison sat down on the grass. His eyes clicked shut. He toppled over sideways.

This time Smitty got hold of the gun with no trouble.

“That was Cole,” said Nellie, brushing herself off.

“Yeah.” Smitty motioned her to stand back. He clutched the metal ring he’d found in the ground. With one powerful tug he lifted up the concealed stone trap door. A metal ladder showed below the opening, leading down into darkness.

“He’s got a flashlight,” said Nellie, frisking the stunned Morrison. She snapped it on and shined the beam down into the hole.

“Tunnel down there.”

“And maybe a few more lads with guns,” cautioned Nellie.

“Nuts to them,” said the giant. “I don’t like getting booted in the bean and being called ‘lumbering.’ It gets me mad.” Grasping the captured .38 revolver in his teeth, he went down the ladder.

“What the hell’s going on up there?” said Stark, eyes on the stone ceiling of the room.

“I’d say it’s either the Marines landing or the cavalry riding to the rescue,” said Cole.

“That idiot Morrison. I told him not to shoot unless it was absolutely necessary.”

“It may well be absolutely necessary now.”

Stark tugged an automatic out of his belt. “We’ll see about that.” He gave most of his attention to the far doorway.

Cole’s hands were still untied, though his legs were bound. He reached out and got hold of the oil lamp on his dinner table. “Saw a chap do this in a Frankie Daro film once,” he said to himself as he lifted up the lamp and threw it directly at Stark’s head.

Smash!

Stark suddenly opened up like a parasol, arms and legs going out. He growled and fell to his knees.

Cole twisted on his chair, causing him to fall over to the left, chair and all.

The lamp shattered on the floor, splashing flame.

Cole’s chair broke and the ropes wound around his legs went slack. He hastened to shed them.

Stark still had hold of his gun. Weaving, he got to his feet and fired the gun twice, not focusing on anything.

Wham!

A slug bit into the wall about a foot above Cole.

He snaked along the floor, aiming for a pocket of darkness.

The lamp flames were dancing toward the wooden table.

“I’ll kill you now, wise guy, and no mistake!” promised Stark.

“No, you won’t, buddy.” It was Smitty looming up in the doorway, the .38 in his fist.

Stark snarled and fired straight at the giant.

Smitty threw himself to the floor.

Stark fired no more. He pivoted and ran for another dark corner of the room. The shadows swallowed him up.

Smitty lifted himself watchfully. “Where’d he go?”

“Yonder,” said Cole. “You still in one piece, old chum?”

“Yeah, he didn’t hit me none. How about yourself?”

“Can’t complain.”

“What’s that bozo doing over there in the corner?”

“Can’t quite see him.”