The Black Patch by Julian Killman. The dead weight about my body made me
gasp as I leapt into the taxicab. So far as my uncle and I
were aware, there was only one other person who knew of my errand he
lived in a small town in the northern part of Ontario and was the sole
surviving member of that branch of the Warren family, which had left England three
generations before. The gold coin I carried was a legacy to him, and
I do not think he would have divulged the manner of its delivery. Yet
twice during the short time that had elapsed since my arrival in New York,
I had been attacked, and on the second occasion, my bag actually snatched
from me. This seemed a bit thick, even for a city as sophisticated
as New York. The taxicab bore me to Grand Central Station, where I
secured my tickets at the booking office after the train had started. There recurred
to my mind the odd request of my Canadian cousin. He had demanded that
his legacy be paid in gold, a decision which, under the terms of
the will left no choice to my uncle and me. Its executors and hence
I was lugging the valuable stuff on my person. The visit to Niagara Falls
was not to be given up, and nothing occurred to increase my apprehension during
my stopover at the famous resort. At the end of the following day,
after much discomfort from the excrapable train service, I reached my destination and hastened
to a hostelry. That evening I ascertained something of my relatives, most of
my information coming from a garrulous waitress who needed but the merest hint of a
question, not only to answer it, but to anticipate five others. Thus
it came about that I learned that David Warren, my cousin many times removed,
was a queer duck, that he was rarely seen downtown these days because
in the past he had had trouble with the authorities. Whether it was intended
to intimate that the man drank or what, I did not find out.
And finally that the further I stayed away from his dump, the better it
would be for me. It was nearly nine o'clock in the evening when I
reached the Warren residence in the outskirts of town. The building was large and
rambling with picturesque gables that loomed out in the peculiar twilight glow of the northern
country. As I passed through the gateway, I perceived every evidence of dilapidation
and decay. There was not a light to be seen in the house.
With considerable misgiving, I proceeded up the long, grass grown walk to the
door and plied the ancient knocker. No one answered. I waited a few
moments, feeling less and less inclined for my task. Suddenly the door swung
open silently. I was confronted by an elderly man who held aloft a candle
and peered at me. Is this my cousin? He asked, if you
are David Warren, I replied, I am David Warren, he said slowly,
and then added more quickly, as if anticipating his remiss as a relative
and host. But come in, sir, come in. As he lowered
the candle and turned to close the door, I was startled to see that
he wore a black patch over one eye. Whatever my first impressions of the
man may have been, certainly nothing occurred during the remainder of the evening to
excite distrust. He carried no side and treated me with the greatest cordiality.
Indeed, there was that about him which gave me satisfaction that he was my
own blood. He was the first low pitched voice I had heard since I
left England. With this opinion of my relative and host, therefore I accepted
his invitation to continue his guest, and soon, with every sense of fear
lulled, was shown to a chamber at the head of the stairs. I
respected his sense of delicacy in not mentioning the object of my visit up to
that time, and did not refer to it myself, for the reason that
I did not wish to have him know I had taken such precautions as to
conceal the gold about my person. How long I slept I do not know,
but some time must have elapsed when suddenly I found myself wide awake.
I sat up, trembling, my hearing, alert for the noise that had
disturbed me. Then it came a faint call, near and yet far distant,
like the successful effort of a ventriloquist. It seemed that the word I
had heard was help. Thoroughly alarmed, I thrust a hand under my pillow.
The gold was still there. I decided to reconnoiter and tiptoed downstairs to
the living room, lighting an occasional waxed festa. I had about concluded that,
in my nervous condition, I was the victim of a hallucination. When
my attention was attracted by an ancient writing desk. Something quite projected from under
the blotter, and quite casually I pulled it out. It was the letter
that had been in the bag snatched from me in New York. The sight
of that bit of inanimate evidence, my positive knowledge that it came from a
stolen gladstone caused my heart to flutter to my room. I returned, but
sleep was not possible, and I relieved the tedium of waiting for daylight by
a thorough examination of my quarters. At seven o'clock there was a rap at
the door, and old Negress signed for me to follow. Good morning,
I heard as I entered the dining room. I trust you slept well,
my cousin. The man with the black patch stood by the window, his
good eye resting on me splendidly. I lied as we finished breakfast, however,
and I made no mention of the purpose of my visit. My host
appeared restless. He rose from the table, and now he said, almost
sharply, I assume you have with you the amount of my legacy one thousand
pounds. Sorry, I said, but I thought it advisable to deposit the
gold in the bank of Niagara Falls. The weight of the stuff made traveling
tremendously uncomfortable. He proved a consummate actor. Of course, of course,
he exclaimed, with quick buoyancy. Let's not worry about it. We can
manage it. Later, twice that day I endeavored to slip away, but
each time my host, with a manner disarmingly casual, contrived to join me.
On the second occasion, I had reached the road and started for the
village, when with profuse apologies for his carelessness, he overtook me. I
concluded the walk in his company. It accomplished nothing. Again and again,
as we passed along the streets of the little town, I noted the curious
gaze of those we met, and the words of the women's scullion recurred to
me. The man with me spoke to no one, and no one spoke
to him. Meanwhile, he kept up a running fire of commentary his thoughts
seemed to race by the way. He exclaimed, as we turned to retrace
our steps, I haven't shown you my laboratory. Later, in exhibiting his
workshop, he evinced extreme nervousness. This I, he exclaimed, I lost
a year ago in an experiment. At the thought of the sightless socket beneath
the black patch, I felt it difficult to repress a shudder. That evening
with my host did not serve to allay my fears. I had definitely planned
to remain and keep awake all night and in the morning to communicate any event
with the authorities. During the long hours it followed, I lay fully dressed
on my bed, revolver in hand, but the vigil was too much for
me in my exhausted condition, and I finally dozed. It must have been
after two o'clock when I awoke and laid tents. A hand was being moved
cautiously back and forth beneath my pillow. The search was thorough, but the
gold was not there. It was again fastened about my body, and the
owner of the hand seemed to conclude that some other course was necessary. For
a moment later, I heard him steal out as I slid from the bed.
There came a sound as if someone had stumbled in the hallway. Instantly
it was followed by a horrible shriek. Again and again it pierced the air.
The hair on my head stiffened with fear. Flinging open the door to
my room, I could just make out that a terrible struggle was in progress
between two men. It continued for a brief bit, and presently I heard
a long, drawn sigh. One of the combatants slid to the floor.
I waited no longer, but leapt into the passageway. My hands extended before
me. Suddenly, in the darkness, they touched those of another. He
was feeling for me. We crouched there for an instant, each reaching for
the other, as in the preliminaries of a wrestling match. His fingers were
hot and slippery with moisture. Then he rushed me. The pistol was not
from my hand, and the next instant the two of us were struggling together
to and fro We staggered. Finally, my feet tripped over the prostrate body
of the man on the floor. My adversary and I went down together.
The fall loosened his grip I was able to breathe more freely, and I
got a hand on his throat. The other hand wandering about his face and
clutching something. I shrieked with the horror of it. One of my fingers
was digging into the empty socket of a human eye. Wild with pain,
my antagonist arose sheer from the floor, flinging me off as if I had
been a child. An instant later I heard him running down the stairs.
It has been difficult for me since to understand my course. That dreadful night,
I was insensate. I followed the man with one eye, for I
fell felt that murder had been done. It was moonlight and I could see
him plainly, with incredible swiftness. The figure sped over the landscape and made
for a trestle, which spanned a crevasse half a mile in the distance.
I knew that on the opposite side of it was a heavily wooded stretch,
and fearing his escape, I endeavored to head him off. He reached the
bridge a few seconds before me, however, and to my horror, I
saw him poise his body at one side. The next moment he went over,
I think we both screamed then the one eyed man as he whirled through
the moonlight to his death, and I as I watched him. Not until
daybreak did I come to myself. The soles of my boots were scuffed through,
and I seemed to have been running for hours, running to blot out
of my vision the sight of the body spinning downward into the abyss, running
to brush from the tentacles of my memory. The horrid thought that I had
driven a human being to his death, then filled with forebodings as to the
identity of the body over which I had stumbled earlier that night, I started
to return. When I reached the house, it was a long time before
I could summons courage to enter. Once inside, however, I gained confidence
and hastened upstairs. The body was gone from the hall, but in the
small room at one end, a mere closet, I found what I was
looking for, the body of the man who had fallen in the struggle in
the night, evidently had dragged himself thither. His heart was still beating,
and I carried him downstairs. He was heavy, and I groaned with relief
as the weight slipped from my arms to the floor. Then I looked at
the face. Never shall I forget it. It was my host. The
black patch was displaced. It covered a perfectly good eye. I must have
swooned at the sight. For the next I knew there were many men about
me. They came from the village and had been notified by the old negress.
I was taken into custody and lodged for three weary hours in a ridiculously
small place they called a lock up. At the end of that time,
I was led before a magistrate who took my statement. Next morning I was
informed that the body of David Warren had been found in the ravine. It
confirmed my worst fears. I had driven to his death my own cousin.
That day the authorities obtained a confession from the man who wore the black patch.
He was unknown to them and stated that his name was Douglas. For
about three months he had had been employed by David Warren as an assistant in
the laboratory work. Having opened by mistake the first letter from our solicitor,
Douglas learned of the legacy and kept my cousin in ignorance of it for two
months. He had confined David Warren under circumstances of the greatest cruelty in the
little closet at the end of the hall. He insured the silence of the
old negress by threats of death. How Warren escaped from his room, Douglas
could not say. He suspected that the negress finally had dared to unlock the
door. In any event, my cousin met Douglas in the dark just after
the latter stepped from my room after his futile attempt to steal the gold.
Then ensued the struggle in the hallway that I had heard, and in which
Warren stabbed the impostor with a knife, a wound that would later result in
the death of the criminal. Although aware that we had never seen our Canadian
cousin, Douglas wore the black patch, fearing that we might know that David
Warren had lost an eye. After the inquest, I hurried, shaken and
trembling, to the hotel and packed the stolen Gladston, which had been found
and returned to me. Then, feeling that I had sufficiently vivid impressions of
America, I purchased a draft with the gold and started on the long journey
home. The end of the black Patch by Julian Kilmen