Slade drove fast through the wild night. There was not a soul about in those lonely lanes. He knew the way by heart, for he had driven repeatedly over that route recently in order to memorize it.
The car bumped down the last bit of lane, and Slade drew up on the edge of the sands.
It was pitch dark, and the bitter wind was howling about him, under the black sky. Despite the noise of the wind, he could hear the surf breaking far away, two miles away, across the level sands. He climbed out of the driver’s seat and walked round to the other door. When he opened it the dead man fell sideways, into his arms.
With an effort, Slade held him up, while he groped into the back of the car for the plough chain and the iron weights. He crammed the weights into the dead man’s pockets, and he wound the chain round the dead man’s body, tucking in the ends to make it all secure. With that mass of iron to hold it down, the body would never be found again when dropped into the sea at the lowest ebb of the Spring tide.
Slade tried now to lift the body in his arms, to carry it over the sands. He reeled and strained, but he was not strong enough -Slade was a man of slight figure, and past his prime. The sweat on his forehead was icy in the cold wind.
For a second, doubt overwhelmed him, lest all his plans should fail for want of bodily strength. But he forced himself into thinking clearly - forced his frail body into obeying the vehement commands of his brain.
He turned round, still holding the dead man upright. Stooping he got the heavy burden on his shoulders. He drew the arms round his neck, and, with a convulsive effort, he got the legs up round his hips. The dead man now rode him pig-a-back. Bending nearly double, he was able to carry the heavy weight in that fashion, the arms tight round his neck, the legs tight round his waist.
He set off, staggering, down the imperceptible slope of the sands towards the sound of the surf. The sands were soft beneath his feet. It was because of this softness that he had not driven the car down to the water’s edge. He could afford to take no chances of being embogged.
The icy wind shrieked round him all that long way. The tide was nearly two miles out. That was why Slade had chosen this place. In the depth of winter, no one would go to the water’s edge at low tide for months to come.
He staggered on over the sands, clasping the limbs of the body close about him. Desperately, he forced himself forward, not stopping to rest, for he only had time now to reach the water’s edge before the flow began. He went on and on, driving his exhausted body with fierce urgings from his frightened brain.
Then, at last, he saw it: a line of white in the darkness which indicated the water’s edge. Farther out, the waves were breaking in an inferno of noise. Here, the fragments of the rollers were only just sufficient to move the surface a little.
He was going to make quite sure of things. Steadying himself he stepped into the water, wading in farther and farther so as to be able to drop the body into comparatively deep water. He held to his resolve, staggering through the icy water, knee deep, thigh deep, until it was nearly at his waist. This was far enough. He stopped, gasping in the darkness.
He leaned over to one side, to roll the body off his back. It did not move. He pulled at its arms. They were obstinate. He could not loosen them. He shook himself, wildly. He tore at the legs round his waist. Still the thing clung to him. Wild with panic and fear, he flung himself about in a mad effort to rid himself of the burden. It clung on as though it were alive. He could not break its grip, no matter how hard he tried.
Then another breaker came in. It splashed about him, wetting him far above his waist. The tide had begun to turn now, and the tide on those sands comes in like a race-horse.
He made another effort to cast off the load, and, when it still held him fast, he lost his nerve and tried to struggle out of the sea. but it was too much for his exhausted body. The weight of the corpse and the iron with which it was loaded overbore him. He fell.
He struggled tip again in the foam-streaked, dark sea, staggering a few steps, fell again - and did not rise. The dead man’s arms were round bis neck, throttling him, strangling him. Rigor mortis had set up and Spalding’s muscles had refused to relax.
ACKNOWLEDGEMENTS
The editor wishes to thank the following authors, their agents or executors, for permission to include copyright material in this collection:
Popular Publications Inc. for ‘The Benevolent Ghost and Captain Lowrie’ by Richard Sale © 1940.
Macmillan London for ‘A Matter of Fact* by Rudyard Kipling © 1935.
William Heinemann for ‘Davy Jones’s Gift’ by John Masefield © 1907.
A. P. Watt Ltd for ‘In The Abyss’ by H. G. Wells © 1946.
A. D. Peters Literary Agency for ‘Undersea Guardians’ by Ray Bradbury © 1944; and ‘The Turning of the Tide’ by C. S. Forester © 1952.
Every effort has been made to trace the copyright holders of the stories in this book. The editor offers his apologies in the event of any acknowledgment being accidentally omitted.