I could not, however, have been more wrong.
The first development came after thirty minutes, and it was nearly as alarming as the disappearance of Teasdale from the gallows cubicle. One of the guards brought the news that a body had been discovered behind a stack of lumber in a lean-to between the execution shed and the iron foundry. But it was not the body of Arthur Teasdale.
It was that of Hollowell, stabbed to death with an awl.
I went immediately. As I stood beneath the rain-swept lean-to, looking down at the bloody front of poor Hollowell’s uniform, a fresh set of unsettling questions tumbled through my mind. Had he been killed because, as I had first thought, he had either seen or intuited something connected with Teasdale’s disappearance? If that was the case, whatever it was had died with him.
Or was it possible that he had himself been involved in the disappearance and been murdered to assure his silence? But how could he have been involved? He had been in my sight the entire time on the gallows platform. He had done nothing suspicious, could not in any way I could conceive have assisted in the deed.
How could Teasdale have survived the hanging?
How could he have escaped not only the gallows but the execution shed itself?
The only explanation seemed to be that it was not a live Arthur Teasdale who was carrying out his warped revenge, but a dead one who had been embraced and given earthly powers by the Forces of Evil...
In order to dispel the dark reflections from my mind, I personally supervised the balance of the search. Tines of lightning split the sky and thunder continued to hammer the roofs as we went from building to building. No corner of the prison compound escaped our scrutiny. No potential hiding place was overlooked. We went so far as to test for the presence of tunnels in the work areas and in the individual cells, although I had instructed just such a search only weeks before as part of my security program.
We found nothing.
Alive or dead, Arthur Teasdale was no longer within the walls of Arrowmont Prison.
I left the prison at ten o’clock that night. There was nothing more to be done, and I was filled with such depression and anxiety that I could not bear to spend another minute there. I had debated contacting the governor, of course, and, wisely or not, had decided against it for the time being. He would think me a lunatic if I requested assistance in a county or statewide search for a man who had for all intents and purposes been hanged at five o’clock that afternoon. If there were no new developments within the next twenty-four hours, I knew I would have no choice but to explain the situation to him. And I had no doubt that such an explanation unaccompanied by Teasdale or Teasdale’s remains would cost me my position.
Before leaving, I swore everyone to secrecy, saying that I would have any man’s job if he leaked word of the day’s events to the press or to the public-at-large. The last thing I wanted was rumor-mongering and a general panic as a result of it. I warned Granger and the other guards who had come in contact with Teasdale to be especially wary and left word that I was to be contacted immediately if there were any further developments before morning.
I had up to that time given little thought to my own safety. But when I reached my cottage in the village I found myself imagining menace in every shadow and sound. Relaxation was impossible. After twenty minutes I felt impelled to leave, to seek out a friendly face. I told my housekeeper I would be at Hallahan’s Irish Inn if anyone called for me and drove my Packard to the tavern.
The first person I saw upon entering was Buckmaster Gilloon. He was seated alone in a corner booth, writing in one of his notebooks, a stein of draught Guinness at his elbow.
Gilloon had always been very secretive about his notebooks and never allowed anyone to glimpse so much as a word of what he put into them. But he was so engrossed when I walked up to the booth that he did not hear me, and I happened to glance down at the open page on which he was writing. There was but a single interrogative sentence on the page, clearly legible in his bold hand. The sentence read:
If a jimbuck stands alone by the sea, on a night when the dark moon sings, how many grains of sand in a single one of his footprints?
That sentence has always haunted me, because I cannot begin to understand its significance. I have no idea what a jimbuck is, except perhaps as a fictional creation, and yet that passage was like none which ever appeared in such periodicals as Argosy or Munsey’s.
Gilloon sensed my presence after a second or two, and he slammed the notebook slut. A ferocious scowl crossed his normally placid features. He said irritably, “Reading over a man’s shoulder is a nasty habit, Parker.”
“I’m sorry, I didn’t mean to pry—”
“I’ll thank you to be more respectful of my privacy in the future.”
“Yes, of course.” I sank wearily into the booth opposite him and called for a Guinness.
Gilloon studied me across the table. “You look haggard, Parker,” he said. “What’s troubling you?”
“It’s... nothing.”
“Everything is something.”
“I’m not at liberty to discuss it.”
“Would it have anything to do with the execution at Arrowmont Prison this afternoon?”
I blinked. “Why would you surmise that?”
“Logical assumption,” Gilloon said. “You are obviously upset, and yet you are a man who lives quietly and suffers no apparent personal problems. You are warden of Arrowmont Prison and the fact of the execution is public knowledge. You customarily come to the inn at eight o’clock, and yet you didn’t make your appearance tonight until after eleven.”
I said, “I wish I had your mathematical mind, Gilloon.”
“Indeed? Why is that?”
“Perhaps then I could find answers where none seem to exist.”
“Answers to what?”
A waiter arrived with my Guinness and I took a swallow gratefully.
Gilloon was looking at me with piercing interest. I avoided his one-eyed gaze, knowing I had already said too much. But there was something about Gilloon that demanded confidence. Perhaps he could shed some light on the riddle of Teasdale’s disappearance.
“Come now, Parker — answers to what?” he repeated. “Has something happened at the prison?”
And of course I weakened — partly because of frustration and worry, partly because the possibility that I might never learn the secret loomed large and painful. “Yes,” I said, “something has happened at the prison. Something incredible, and I mean that literally.” I paused to draw a heavy breath. “If I tell you about it, do I have your word that you won’t let it go beyond this table?”
“Naturally.” Gilloon leaned forward and his good eye glittered with anticipation. “Go on, Parker.”
More or less calmly at first, then with increasing agitation as I relived the events, I proceeded to tell Gilloon everything that had transpired at the prison. He listened with attention, not once interrupting. I had never seen him excited prior to that night, but when I had finished, he was fairly squirming. He took off his Scotch cap and ran a hand through his thin-fling brown hair.
“Fascinating tale,” he said.
“Horrifying would be a more appropriate word.”
“That too, yes. No wonder you’re upset.”
“It defies explanation,” I said. “And yet there has to be one. I refuse to accept the supernatural implications.”
“I wouldn’t be so skeptical of the supernatural if I were you, Parker. I’ve come across a number of things in my travels which could not be satisfactorily explained by man or science.”