Speaker 1: 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