Dr. Montague Winters and a room for his secretary Miss Emmy Lou Spaulding. I put you folks in 101 and 102, up on the second floor. If that suits you?”
Benson had wandered off and was squinting at a primitive portrait that hung over the fireplace. “Excellent piece of work, exceptional,” he murmured.
“That your line of work, pictures and such?” asked the clerk as he passed the register across the counter toward Nellie.
The Avenger turned. “I can see you haven’t heard of me,” he said. “I suppose that’s to be expected. No, my field of interest is . . . witchcraft.”
The clerk blinked, swallowed. “Witchcraft?”
Walking toward him, Benson continued, “Surely you know, a man immersed in the relics of the past as you are, that this town was once the center of a practicing coven of witches and warlocks?”
“Oh, you mean back in the old days,” said the clerk, after licking his lips. “Yes, that’s certainly true, professor. Yes, a good many strange things went on back then, so legend has it.”
“Exactly,” said Benson. “Which explains my being here. I am researching a book on the witchcraft of New England. You may have seen my earlier work, Devils and Demons of Middle Europe .”
“I don’t do much reading,” admitted the clerk. “When I do, I usually buy a few of these pulp magazines over to Gibson’s General Store.”
“I see, I see.”
“Perhaps we’d better get up to our rooms, professor,” suggested Nellie. “We’ve had a long drive over from Princeton, and in your condition . . .”
“Yes, yes, I suppose you’re right.”
The clerk located two keys and led them up a shadowy darkwood staircase to their rooms.
The man with the gun was tall, very blond. He gestured with the .38 revolver in his hand. “Step along this way, Mr. MacMurdie.” A faint trace of accent was noticeable in his speech.
“Would ye be a paid-up member of the coven, lad?”
“That needn’t concern you,” the blond man said. “It was a mistake to have stashed you up in the crypt. Very clever of you to have discovered a way out.”
“The wrong way, it seems.”
The blond man said, “You will walk along this corridor now, if you please.”
Mac complied with the gunman’s order.
“Unfortunately for you, Mr. MacMurdie, every time the door in the crypt opens, a light flashes down here,” said the blond man. “That’s far enough. Stop by that wall lamp there, please.”
Mac glanced around at the wooden walls and at the beams that supported the low ceiling. “Where mot we be?”
“It really doesn’t matter.” Keeping the revolver trained on the Scot, he reached up and twisted the base of the lamp.
“These walls are nae new,” observed Mac.
A section of the wood paneling slid, jerkingly, aside. There was a heavy metal door behind that.
The gunman pressed several spots on the door, and it grated open. He gave MacMurdie a sharp push, his hand slamming hard between the shoulder blades.
Mac went stumbling forward into darkness.
The floor was slanted. He couldn’t keep himself from moving ahead. He grabbed out, but couldn’t get hold of anything but darkness.
Chill air hit him, and then he was falling. Down and down.
CHAPTER XIV
Captives
Anne Barley sneezed.
There was dust lying thick on most of the surfaces of the dim room she had found herself in. It was a stone-walled room, with an ancient wooden table against one wall and an equally antique chair in its center. The only light came from a weak wire-shielded bulb in the ceiling.
Anne had awakened a few minutes earlier. The lower part of her face felt vaguely strange; her lips and nostrils burned. She remembered they’d pressed something over her face. They’d grabbed her from behind, down at the old dock area where she’d been trying to find some trace of a boat accident.
And now she was here. When Anne left the chair, she discovered she couldn’t quite walk steadily yet. She kept at it, though, determined to explore
Benson had wandered off and was squinting at a primitive portrait that hung over the fireplace. “Excellent piece of work, exceptional,” he murmured.
“That your line of work, pictures and such?” asked the clerk as he passed the register across the counter toward Nellie.
The Avenger turned. “I can see you haven’t heard of me,” he said. “I suppose that’s to be expected. No, my field of interest is . . . witchcraft.”
The clerk blinked, swallowed. “Witchcraft?”
Walking toward him, Benson continued, “Surely you know, a man immersed in the relics of the past as you are, that this town was once the center of a practicing coven of witches and warlocks?”
“Oh, you mean back in the old days,” said the clerk, after licking his lips. “Yes, that’s certainly true, professor. Yes, a good many strange things went on back then, so legend has it.”
“Exactly,” said Benson. “Which explains my being here. I am researching a book on the witchcraft of New England. You may have seen my earlier work, Devils and Demons of Middle Europe .”
“I don’t do much reading,” admitted the clerk. “When I do, I usually buy a few of these pulp magazines over to Gibson’s General Store.”
“I see, I see.”
“Perhaps we’d better get up to our rooms, professor,” suggested Nellie. “We’ve had a long drive over from Princeton, and in your condition . . .”
“Yes, yes, I suppose you’re right.”
The clerk located two keys and led them up a shadowy darkwood staircase to their rooms.
The man with the gun was tall, very blond. He gestured with the .38 revolver in his hand. “Step along this way, Mr. MacMurdie.” A faint trace of accent was noticeable in his speech.
“Would ye be a paid-up member of the coven, lad?”
“That needn’t concern you,” the blond man said. “It was a mistake to have stashed you up in the crypt. Very clever of you to have discovered a way out.”
“The wrong way, it seems.”
The blond man said, “You will walk along this corridor now, if you please.”
Mac complied with the gunman’s order.
“Unfortunately for you, Mr. MacMurdie, every time the door in the crypt opens, a light flashes down here,” said the blond man. “That’s far enough. Stop by that wall lamp there, please.”
Mac glanced around at the wooden walls and at the beams that supported the low ceiling. “Where mot we be?”
“It really doesn’t matter.” Keeping the revolver trained on the Scot, he reached up and twisted the base of the lamp.
“These walls are nae new,” observed Mac.
A section of the wood paneling slid, jerkingly, aside. There was a heavy metal door behind that.
The gunman pressed several spots on the door, and it grated open. He gave MacMurdie a sharp push, his hand slamming hard between the shoulder blades.
Mac went stumbling forward into darkness.
The floor was slanted. He couldn’t keep himself from moving ahead. He grabbed out, but couldn’t get hold of anything but darkness.
Chill air hit him, and then he was falling. Down and down.
CHAPTER XIV
Captives
Anne Barley sneezed.
There was dust lying thick on most of the surfaces of the dim room she had found herself in. It was a stone-walled room, with an ancient wooden table against one wall and an equally antique chair in its center. The only light came from a weak wire-shielded bulb in the ceiling.
Anne had awakened a few minutes earlier. The lower part of her face felt vaguely strange; her lips and nostrils burned. She remembered they’d pressed something over her face. They’d grabbed her from behind, down at the old dock area where she’d been trying to find some trace of a boat accident.
And now she was here. When Anne left the chair, she discovered she couldn’t quite walk steadily yet. She kept at it, though, determined to explore
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