It was the design of Angelo Ricci and Joe Czanek and Manuel Silva to
call on the Terrible Old Man. This old man dwells all alone in a very
ancient house on Water Street near the sea, and is reputed to be both
exceedingly rich and exceedingly feeble; which forms a situation very
attractive to men of the profession of Messrs. Ricci, Czanek, and Silva,
for that profession was nothing less dignified than robbery.
The inhabitants of Kingsport say and think many things about the
Terrible Old Man which generally keep him safe from the attention of
gentlemen like Mr. Ricci and his colleagues, despite the almost certain
fact that he hides a fortune of indefinite magnitude somewhere about his
musty and venerable abode. He is, in truth, a very strange person,
believed to have been a captain of East India clipper ships in his day;
so old that no one can remember when he was young, and so taciturn that
few know his real name. Among the gnarled trees in the front yard of his
aged and neglected place he maintains a strange collection of large
stones, oddly grouped and painted so that they resemble the idols in
some obscure Eastern temple. This collection frightens away most of the
small boys who love to taunt the Terrible Old Man about his long white
hair and beard, or to break the small-paned windows of his dwelling with
wicked missiles; but there are other things which frighten the older
and more curious folk who sometimes steal up to the house to peer in
through the dusty panes. These folk say that on a table in a bare room
on the ground floor are many peculiar bottles, in each a small piece of
lead suspended pendulum-wise from a string. And they say that the
Terrible Old Man talks to these bottles, addressing them by such names
as Jack, Scar-Face, Long Tom, Spanish Joe, Peters, and Mate Ellis, and
that whenever he speaks to a bottle the little lead pendulum within
makes certain definite vibrations as if in answer. Those who have
watched the tall, lean, Terrible Old Man in these peculiar
conversations, do not watch him again. But Angelo Ricci and Joe Czanek
and Manuel Silva were not of Kingsport blood; they were of that new and
heterogeneous alien stock which lies outside the charmed circle of New
England life and traditions, and they saw in the Terrible Old Man merely
a tottering, almost helpless greybeard, who could not walk without the
aid of his knotted cane, and whose thin, weak hands shook pitifully.
They were really quite sorry in their way for the lonely, unpopular old
fellow, whom everybody shunned, and at whom all the dogs barked
singularly. But business is business, and to a robber whose soul is in
his profession, there is a lure and a challenge about a very old and
very feeble man who has no account at the bank, and who pays for his few
necessities at the village store with Spanish gold and silver minted
two centuries ago.
Messrs. Ricci,
Czanek, and Silva selected the night of April 11th for their call. Mr.
Ricci and Mr. Silva were to interview the poor old gentleman, whilst Mr.
Czanek waited for them and their presumable metallic burden with a
covered motor-car in Ship Street, by the gate in the tall rear wall of
their host’s grounds. Desire to avoid needless explanations in case of
unexpected police intrusions prompted these plans for a quiet and
unostentatious departure.
As
prearranged, the three adventurers started out separately in order to
prevent any evil-minded suspicions afterward. Messrs. Ricci and Silva
met in Water Street by the old man’s front gate, and although they did
not like the way the moon shone down upon the painted stones through the
budding branches of the gnarled trees, they had more important things
to think about than mere idle superstition. They feared it might be
unpleasant work making the Terrible Old Man loquacious concerning his
hoarded gold and silver, for aged sea-captains are notably stubborn and
perverse. Still, he was very old and very feeble, and there were two
visitors. Messrs. Ricci and Silva were experienced in the art of making
unwilling persons voluble, and the screams of a weak and exceptionally
venerable man can be easily muffled. So they moved up to the one lighted
window and heard the Terrible Old Man talking childishly to his bottles
with pendulums. Then they donned masks and knocked politely at the
weather-stained oaken door.
Waiting
seemed very long to Mr. Czanek as he fidgeted restlessly in the covered
motor-car by the Terrible Old Man’s back gate in Ship Street. He was
more than ordinarily tender-hearted, and he did not like the hideous
screams he had heard in the ancient house just after the hour appointed
for the deed. Had he not told his colleagues to be as gentle as possible
with the pathetic old sea-captain? Very nervously he watched that
narrow oaken gate in the high and ivy-clad stone wall. Frequently he
consulted his watch, and wondered at the delay. Had the old man died
before revealing where his treasure was hidden, and had a thorough
search become necessary? Mr. Czanek did not like to wait so long in the
dark in such a place. Then he sensed a soft tread or tapping on the walk
inside the gate, heard a gentle fumbling at the rusty latch, and saw
the narrow, heavy door swing inward. And in the pallid glow of the
single dim street-lamp he strained his eyes to see what his colleagues
had brought out of that sinister house which loomed so close behind. But
when he looked, he did not see what he had expected; for his colleagues
were not there at all, but only the Terrible Old Man leaning quietly on
his knotted cane and smiling hideously. Mr. Czanek had never before
noticed the colour of that man’s eyes; now he saw that they were yellow.
Little things make considerable excitement in little towns, which is
the reason that Kingsport people talked all that spring and summer about
the three unidentifiable bodies, horribly slashed as with many
cutlasses, and horribly mangled as by the tread of many cruel
boot-heels, which the tide washed in. And some people even spoke of
things as trivial as the deserted motor-car found in Ship Street, or
certain especially inhuman cries, probably of a stray animal or
migratory bird, heard in the night by wakeful citizens. But in this idle
village gossip the Terrible Old Man took no interest at all. He was by
nature reserved, and when one is aged and feeble one’s reserve is doubly
strong. Besides, so ancient a sea-captain must have witnessed scores of
things much more stirring in the far-off days of his unremembered
youth.