Лестер Дент - The Fantastic Island

The other guard bent close over the edge of the hole. Pat shrank back. All at once, the pulse throbbed violently in her wrists and in her golden eyes sprang a look of desperate hope. She was recognizing this guard. He was another member of the expedition that had disappeared with Johnny.

"Aren't you … " she started to suggest.

"Al Fredrickton, first mate," he supplied.

"But you … and that whip!"

"I have to whip to keep from being whipped," he whispered savagely. "I'm on top today. Tomorrow they may yank the collar off my neck and pitch me in a hole. I'm just as much a prisoner as these poor devils digging."

"But what is it all about?" Pat questioned.

"I don't know any more about it than you do. I only know that men dig and die."

"Dig and die …"she echoed starkly. "What about Johnny?"

"He was taken to the palace. He may be alive. Listen … 33 Redbeach Road, Long Island. Can you remember that?"

"33 Redbeach Road … I've got it."

"Boris Ramadanoff,at that address."

"I've got it. What about it?"

The man's breath came faster. "You're our only hope," he rasped. "They'll take you to the Palace. Try to contact Johnny. Tell him the name and address. There's a powerful shortwave radio sending set at the palace. Johnny must get a message to Doc Savage. Tell Doc Savage to contact Boris Ramadanoff."

"Yes, but what good will that do?"

"Ramadanoff can tell Doc Savage all he needs to know to effect our rescue. Ramadanoff is the brother of the big-shot here on the island. They quarreled, the two brothers. And Boris left for New York."

"How did you find out all this?"

"After our ship followed in the false harbor lights and was wrecked, we were taken prisoners. The steward and I were retained to work in the palace kitchen. The steward heard the brothers quarreling. He learned Boris's new address and passed it on to me."

"Where is the steward?" Pat asked.

"Dead!" said the man. "They suspected he knew something. They killed him."

Pat shuddered. "Life isn't worth much here, is it?"

- — — — — — — — — — — — —

Something happened the next moment to demonstrate anew the fiendish ruthlessness of the sinister genius in control of this island.

A drumming beat sounded against the ground and a huge horse — ridden hard — snorted to a stiff-legged stop in front of the line of working pits. The horse was a quivering black shadow under the wan starlight. The rider was a shadow proportionately huge and black.

With virulent curses, the rider urged the plunging horse in among the cowering overseers. He leaned far out of his saddle, cracking heads right-and-left with a fearful instrument — a knout, fashioned somewhat on the order of those used in Imperial Russia. Again-and-again the knout descended, its woven leather thongs — reinforced with wire and hardened by a rosin treatment — biting down deeply and forcing agonized yells.

One of the guards showed fight. He dodged the blow of the knout, flung in close against the plunging horse, and reached up to pull the horseman from the saddle. The man in the saddle only laughed a raw ghoulish clacking … pulled a revolver from holster … and shot the guard dead.

The horseman kept laughing and driving bullets into the guard's body even after the fellow was slumped in a still, dead heap on the ground. After that, no one offered resistance.

The horseman raised his voice in a bawled order. Guards scurried frenziedly into the pits where Monk, Ham, and Pat were shackled. They unlocked the leg irons and motioned for the captives to climb out of their holes.

The three were brought before the man on the horse. The man spoke in precise English. His voice was suavely sinister .

He said, "It was a stupid blunder of my slaves to chain you to the pits. It is only the Asiatic immigrant ships sailing to South America that I intercept for my pit laborers. Those … and occasional Ecuadorian fishermen, guano and moss hunters. When upon rare occasions a yacht comes this way, its occupants are received as welcome guests."

"How does a 'guest' get off this island after his ship is wrecked?" Ham asked dryly.

"My dear General Brooks," came the precise voice from the darkly-bulking figure on the horse, "none have ever gotten off."

"This lug knows who we are!" Monk muttered. Then aloud, he said, "They're all on here now? The 'guests'?"

"They are, my dear Colonel Mayfair. Though a bit unrecognizable, some of them."

"Doubtless you have reference to Professor Littlejohn," the other murmured.

"He is quite recognizable. I shall take you to him. But first permit me to introduce myself. I am Count Alexander Ramadanoff."

Turning to the guards, the Count barked an order. Men padded forward with peculiar contrivances, resembling wicker hammocks. They deposited the litters on the ground and stood a little back.

The Count's hand waved out. His sardonic voice sounded:

"There is one for each of you. Recline, and I will conduct you in state to the Palace."

Monk hooted, "No hospital cot for mine. I'll walk!"

"Recline," the Count ordered again, and the knout swung menacingly in his hand.

They took their places on the wicker litters — Monk grumbling, Ham doubtful, and Pat frankly grateful for the convenience.

"Hey!" Monk blurted. "We're forgettin' Habeas Corpus."

"You have reference to the trained Arabian pig?" the Count questioned with suave politeness.

"You know everything, don't you?" Monk growled. "Yeah, I mean my pig."

Count Ramadanoff exchanged a few guttural phrases with the overseers, then addressed Monk.

"The pig must have escaped into the jungle. He will find company more to his liking there. Wild swine overrun this island."

Ham said, "Well anyhow, we've seen the last of that hog."

Monk glowered at Ham. "It's your fault, shyster! You let him go."

"If it wasn't for you and your pesky pig, we wouldn't be in this fix," Ham retorted.

Count Ramadanoff cut short their quarrel by ordering the litter bearers to proceed. Through a narrow path hacked in the vine-matted jungle growth, they jogged along with the Count — on his horse — bringing up the rear.

They came out on a strip of rocky coastline and the "guests" stared with astonishment.

"Blazes!" Monk gulped. "Blazes! Look!"

- — — — — — — — — — — — —

Rising sheer — washed by ocean spray on one side and bathed in the blood-redglare of volcanic light on the other — a Palace of medieval Slavic type flung its black rock turrets high above the jungle growth.

Through a drawbridge in the bastioned wall of 20-foot thick volcanic rock, they entered the bleak Palace courtyard. The drawbridge swung ponderously closed behind them.

Pat shivered. She felt as though she was locked out of the World.

"An army couldn't get through these walls," Ham reflected uneasily.

"Some joint!" Monk mumbled.

Past the high buttressed towers the "guests" were carried and deposited in front of a low-arched doorway. The Count dismounted from his black horse and waved them inside.

"Some joint is right!" Monk said emphatically as he stopped inside the stone threshold and stared around.

The room was huge, high-vaulted. An oppressive cavern of black volcanic rock and wooden beams. Demoniacal blue flames leaped within a fireplace large enough to have engulfed a whole ox for roasting. The fire shadows swooped on long curtains of somber ruby red which hung on brass hoops. Silver samovars glowed dully from shadowed recesses. Ancient icons looked down from the walls. The only modern touch in the whole vast room was a grand piano draped with costly sea otter furs and brightly illuminated by crystal spangled candelabras which shed a yellow light from high overhead.