Safer? Half a second later I knew that a lion’s cage would have been preferable. There was a quick rush of movement in the dark behind me. Something lunged heavily against my back. An arm hooked around my neck and squeezed nut-crackerlike, jerking my head up and back, strangling the startled cry that I had begun.
I staggered, off balance, trying to twist from the tightening grasp and face my assailant. I didn’t have a chance. Something hard and heavy struck my head, and a shattering burst of pain exploded and blotted out all else. A milky way of shifting, giddily swirling light specks danced in Surrealist confusion before my eyes and I dropped swiftly into nothing.
Falling, one faint memory lingered for a moment — the rough prickly feel of my attacker’s bearded jaw as it scraped along the side of my face!
Later, how much later I had no way of knowing, I struggled upward again and felt the chill night air against my face and a throb of pain pounding in my head. I seemed to be upside down, arms dangling, a heavy weight pressing against my thighs. Somewhere, behind the waves of pain, a warning rang and brought a swift flooding of awareness.
I was lying, for the second time that night, face down across a window sill, my body half out and within a scant inch of toppling over and down.
Reflex action jerked at the muscles of my legs and my hands tried vainly to reach the sill. I felt a constricting tightness about my ankles and, at the same instant, the grasp of two hands that gripped my legs and lifted them, tipping my body forward. The rough stone of the outer wall scraped against my face as I somersaulted out and hurtled down.
My mind raced in one last frantic burst of activity, deducing from the sudden jerk at my legs and the rushing acceleration of my downward plunge that a weight was fastened to my ankles. Then the breathtaking shock of the icy water that surged up and closed over me brought the blackout down again.
Chapter Eleven:
Frying Pan into Fire
After the initial paralyzing shock, the icy stinging cold burned like liquid fire and set a thousand alarm bells clanging furiously in my brain. Escape in sleep was impossible. I had to wake.
I doubled, my knees against my chest, and strained to reach the encircling stricture that held my ankles. It was wire — electric-light cord — tied in knots that my stiff aching fingers could not possibly untangle in the few remaining seconds that were left.
I pushed with panic-stricken haste at my shoes, jerking them off, and then tore at the circle of wire, trying to shove it down over my heels. I didn’t really expect to succeed. But the tying job had apparently been hasty. There was just enough slack. One foot slipped free. And then, as my tortured lungs rebelled against the agonizing pressure, I kicked the other loose. I shot upward, the pain in my chest easing as I exhaled.
My head broke the surface just as the salty water began to rush in, and I choked, half strangled, gulping air and water. As I struggled to lift my head up above the choppy waves that rose and slapped my face perversely each time I tried to get another mouthful of air, I saw that there was light in the study window. And slowly, as I fought the water and the hampering weight of heavy winter clothing that made any real swimming impossible, I realized that the window was more distant than it should be, that the outgoing tide was carrying me away from house and shore at an alarming rate.
Frantically I kicked, lifting myself to get a halfway decent lungful of air. Then I sank down once more toward Davy Jones’s locker as I tried to twist out of the overcoat that clung as tightly and obstinately as any strait jacket.
Next time, given a choice, I’ll go overboard in a sealed coffin rather than take another chance in the completely refractory entanglement of a wet overcoat. The thing snagged once, pinioning my arms behind my back. I gave up, or thought I did. But my arms and shoulders, feeling as though they belonged to someone else, struggled desperately and finally tore loose.
I gained the surface again none too soon, and began to swim in a dazed automatic fashion. I was dimly aware that I could no longer see the lighted window, but I took a dozen strokes before the fact really penetrated. Then I turned and saw that I had been going in the wrong direction. I tried to rest a moment by floating on my back. But the effort was nearly as great as swimming. I rolled over and struggled on, heading for the black outcropping of shadow at the left of the house where a sun deck extended out above the water.
I had covered half the distance when the shots came — two sudden reports close together.
My first thought was that my attacker in the study had seen me and was trying to finish me off. But then, looking up, I saw the black crosshatched lines of the leaded panes. The study window was closed and its yellow square of light was empty.
I kept one eye on it as I swam, ready to submerge if necessary. The memory of the coldblooded piratical way someone had trussed me up and dumped me overboard made me mad. I was determined to get back and settle that score, if for no other reason.
Finally, in a last agonizing effort, I reached the porch and hung, completely done in, to an upright piling that was part of the understructure. It was high tide and I could just reach the porch edge above my head, but there was no strength left in my arms to pull my waterlogged body up. I hung on grimly, trying to regain strength enough to work my way the last dozen yards around to the shore.
But before I dared let go, someone up above threw open the study window and leaned out. The long beam of a flashlight shot down, swept across the black water, and centered full on me. I waited hopelessly for the shot I was sure would come.
Instead, a voice shouted, “Sergeant! Outside quick! There’s a man down there in the water!”
Sergeant! It sounded as though the marines might have arrived at last. I concentrated on holding fast.
A moment later footsteps pounded across the floor overhead, a light shone down on my face. Then a long arm reached down and a hand grabbed my wrist.
Merlini’s voice said, “Ross! Are you all right?”
The feeling of relief was so great that my answer, though weak, was sarcastic. “Oh s-sure,” I said. “C–C-Come on in. The water’s f-fine.”
Merlini’s voice showed relief then too. “You had me scared for a minute. And completely baffled. When you set out to put on a disappearing act of your own, you certainly go to town, don’t you?”
“Yeah, and I n-nearly stayed there. G-Get me out of here!”
The sergeant arrived then and, together, they hoisted me up. Merlini stripped off his overcoat, threw it around me, and then, one of them on each side, they hurried me toward the front door.
As we came into the light of the hall, the sergeant grunted. “Well, I’ll be—”
It was my old friend Lovejoy who had booked me on the traffic charge a week before. This time I could have kissed him.
As they rushed me up the stairs, I heard Phillips’s voice at the phone shakily demanding that Doctor Haggard come at once. And Merlini, as we passed, cut in with demands for blankets, hot-water bottles, and other first-aid measures.
Someone had fixed the light in the upper hall. Galt and Dunning were there, staring at me, and Kay, after one look, gave Dunning the same set of orders Merlini had thrown at Phillips.
Before the open door of the study stood the man whose light had found me in the water. He was a wiry, slender individual with a grim look on his face and a coldly suspicious stare in his gray eyes. His voice had the timbre of sandpaper.
“Who the hell,” he demanded, “are you?”
“Friend of mine,” Merlini answered quickly. “Explain later. We’ve got to get him—”