Holocaust House by Norbert Davis (brene brown rising strong TXT) 📖

million dollars ain’t hay,” said Doan.

J. S. Toggery nodded, still dreamy. “No, and if I could just get hold of—” He snapped out of it. “Damn you, Doan, must you reduce every higher human emotion to a basis of crass commercialism?”

“Yes, as long as I work for you.”

“Huh! Well, anyway she’s hiding up there to get away from it all. Her companion-secretary is with her. They’re staying at a lodge her old man owned. Brill, the attorney who handles the income from the trust, is staying with them until you get there. There’s a caretaker at the lodge too.”

“I see,” said Doan, nodding. “It sounds interesting. It’s too bad I can’t go.”

Toggery said numbly: “Too bad you… What! What! Are you crazy? Why can’t you go?”

Doan pointed to the floor. “Carstairs. He disapproves of mountains.”

Toggery choked. “You mean that damned dog—”

Doan snapped his fingers. “I’ve got it. I’ll leave him in your care.”

“That splay-footed monstrosity! I—I’ll—”

Doan reached down and tapped Carstairs on the top of his head. “Carstairs, my friend. Pay attention. You are going to visit Mr. Toggery for a few days. Treat him with consideration because he means well.”

Carstairs blinked balefully at Toggery, and Toggery shivered.

“And now,” said Doan cheerfully. “The money.”

“Money!” Toggery shouted. “What did you do with the hundred I advanced you on your next month’s salary?”

“I don’t remember exactly, but another hundred will do nicely.”

Toggery moaned. He counted out bills on the counter with trembling hands. Doan wadded them up and thrust them carelessly into his coat pocket.

“Aren’t you forgetting something, Mr. Doan?” MacTavish asked.

“Oh, yes,” said Doan. “Toggery, pay MacTavish what I owe him on account. Cheerio, all. Goodbye, Carstairs. I’ll give you a ring soon.” He went out the door whistling.

Toggery collapsed limply against the counter, shaking his head. “I think I’m going mad now,” he said. “My brain is simmering like a teakettle.”

“He gets me that way too,” said MacTavish. “Why do you put up with him?”

“Hah!” said Toggery. “Listen! If he wasn’t the best—the very best—private detective west of the Mississippi, and if this branch of the agency didn’t depend entirely on him for its good record, I would personally murder him!”

“I doubt if you could,” said MacTavish.

“I know it,” Toggery admitted glumly. “He could take on you and me together with Carstairs thrown in and massacre all three of us without mussing his hair. He’s the most dangerous little devil I’ve ever seen, and he’s all the worse because of that half-witted manner of his. You never suspect what he’s up to until it’s too late.”

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CHAPTER IV. WELCOME TO DESOLATION

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DOAN ROLLED HIS head back and forth on the hard plush cushion, opened his eyes and blinked politely. “You were saying something?”

The conductor’s face was red with exertion. “Yes, I was sayin’ something! I been sayin’ something for the last ten minutes steady! I thought you was in a trance! This here is where you get off!”

Doan yawned and straightened up. He had a crick in his neck, and he winced, poking his finger at the spot.

The roadbed was rough here, and the old-fashioned tubular brass lamps that hung from the arched car top jittered in short nervous arcs. The whaff-whaff-whaff of the engine exhaust sounded laboriously from ahead. The car was thick and murky with the smell of cinders. Aside from the conductor, Doan was the only occupant.

Doan asked: “Do you stop while I get off, or am I supposed to hop off like a hobo?”

“We’ll stop,” said the conductor.

He might have been in telepathic communication with the engineer, because that’s just what they did right then. The engine brakes screeched, and the car hopped up against the bumpers and dropped back again with a breath-taking jar, groaning in every joint.

“Is he mad at somebody?” Doan asked, referring to the engineer.

“Listen, you,” said the conductor indignantly. “This here grade is so steep that a fly couldn’t walk up it without his feet were dipped in molasses first.”

Doan took a look at the empty seats. “You didn’t make this trip especially on my account, did you?”

“No!” The conductor was even more indignant at the injustice of it. “We got to run a train from Palos Junction through here and back every twenty-four hours in the off season to keep our franchise. Otherwise you’d have walked up. Come on! We ain’t got all night to sit around here.”

Doan hauled his grip from the rack, pausing to peer out the steamed window. “Is it still raining?”

The conductor snorted. “Raining! It’s rainin’ down on the coast maybe, but not here. You’re eight thousand feet up in the Rocky Mountains, son, and it’s snowin’ like somebody dumped it out of a chute.”

Doan was no outdoorsman, and he hadn’t taken what J. S. Toggery had said about skis and snow-shoes at all seriously.

“Snowing?” he said incredulously. “Why, it’s still summer!”

“Not up here,” said the conductor. “She’ll make three feet on the level, and it’s driftin’. Get goin’.”

Still incredulous, Doan hauled his bag down the aisle and through the end door of the car. This was the last car, the only passenger coach, and when he stepped out on the darkness of the platform the snow and the wind slapped across his face like a giant icy hand. Doan sputtered indignantly and went staggering off balance down the iron steps and plumped into powdery wet coldness that congealed above the level of his thighs.

The engine whistle gave a triumphant, echoing scream.

The conductor was a dim, huddled form with one gaunt arm stretched out like a semaphore. His voice drifted thinly with the wind.

“That way! Through snow-sheds… along spur…”

The engine screamed again, impatiently, and bucked the train ahead.

Doan had dropped his bag, and he scrambled around in the snow trying to find it. “Wait! Wait! I’ve changed my mind.”

The red and green lights on the back of the car blinked mockingly at him, and the conductor’s howl came blurred and faint through the white swirling darkness.

“Station… quarter-mile… snow-sheds…”

The engine wailed like a banshee, and the snow and the darkness swallowed the sound of it up in one gulp.

“Well, hell,” said Doan.

He spat snow out of his mouth and wiped the cold wetness of it off his face. He located his bag and hauled it out into the middle of the tracks. He had a topcoat strapped on the side of the grip, and he unfastened it now and struggled into it. He was thinking darkly bitter thoughts about J. S. Toggery.

With the collar pulled up tight around his throat and his hat pulled down as far it would go over his ears, he stood huddled in the middle of the tracks and looked slowly and unbelievingly around him. He had a range of vision of about ten feet in any given direction; beyond that there was nothing but snow and blackness. There was no sign of any other human, and, aside from the railroad tracks, no sign that there ever had been one here.

“Hey!” Doan shouted.

His voice traveled away and came back after a while in a low, thoughtful echo.

“This is very nice, Doan,” said Doan. “You’re a detective. Make a brilliant deduction.”

He couldn’t think of an appropriate one, so he shrugged his shoulders casually, picked up his bag and started walking along the track in the direction the conductor had pointed. The wind slapped and tugged at him angrily, hauling him first one way and then the other, and the frozen gravel of the roadbed ground under his shoes.

He kept his head down and continued walking until he tripped over a switch rail. He looked up and stared into what seemed to be the mouth of an immense square cave. He headed for it, kicking through the drifts in front, and then suddenly he was inside and out of the reach of the wind and the persistent, swirling snow.

It began to make sense now. This high square cave was a wooden snow-shed built to keep the drifts off the spur track on which he was standing. If the rest of the conductor’s shouted information could be relied on, the station was a quarter mile further along the spur track.

Doan nodded once to himself, satisfied, took a new grip on the handles of his bag and started trudging along the track. It had been dark outside, but the darkness inside the shed was black swimming ink with no slightest glimmer to relieve it. It was a darkness that enclosed Doan like an envelope and seemed to travel along ahead of him, piling up thicker and thicker with each step he took.

He lost his sense of direction, tripped over the rails and banged against the side of the shed, starting up echoes that clattered deafeningly.

Swearing to himself in a whisper, Doan put his bag down on the ground and fumbled around in his pockets until he found a match. He snapped it alight on his thumbnail and held it up in front of him, cupping his hands protectively around the wavering yellow of the flame.

There was a man standing not a yard away from him—standing stiff and rigid against the rough boards of the shed wall, one arm outthrust awkwardly as though he were mutely offering to shake hands. His eyes reflected the match flame glassily.

“Uh!” said Doan, startled.

The man didn’t say anything, didn’t move. He was a short, thick man, and his face looked roughened and bluish in the dim light.

“Well… hello,” Doan said uncertainly. He felt a queer chill horror.

The man stayed there, unmoving, his right hand outthrust. Very slowly Doan reached out and touched the hand. It was ice-cold, and the fingers were as rigid as steel hooks.

Doan went backward one stumbling step and then another while the shadows jiggled weirdly around him. Then the match burned his fingers and he dropped it, and the darkness slapped down like a giant soft hand. It was then that he heard a noise behind him—a stealthy skitter in the gravel, faint through the swish of the snow against the shed walls.

Doan turned his head a little at a time until he could see over his shoulder. He stood there rigid while the darkness seemed to pulsate with the beat of his heart.

There were eyes watching him. Luminous and yellow and close to the ground, slanted obliquely at their corners. There were three pairs of them.

Doan stood there until the breath ached in his throat. The paired eyes didn’t move. Doan exhaled very slowly and softly. He slid his hand inside the bulk of his topcoat, under his suit coat, and closed his fingers on the butt of the Police Positive.

Just as slowly he drew the revolver from under his coat. The hammer made a small cold click. Doan fired straight up in the air.

The report raised a deafening thunder of echoes. The eyes blinked and were gone, and a voice bellowed hollowly at Doan out of the blackness:

“Don’t you shoot them dogs! Damn you, don’t you shoot them dogs!”

The voice came from somewhere in back of where the yellow eyes had been. Doan dropped on one knee, leveling the revolver in that direction.

“Show a light,” he ordered. “Right now.”

Light splayed out from an electric lantern and revealed long legs in baggy blue denim pants and high snow-smeared boots with bulging rawhide laces. The yellow eyes were back of the legs, just out of the throw of light from the lantern, staring in savage watchfulness.

“Higher,” said Doan. “Higher with the lantern.”

The light went up by jerks like a sticky curtain on a stage, showing in turn a clumsy-looking sheepskin