Hurricane by Hubbard L. Ron

Author:Hubbard, L. Ron [Hubbard, L. Ron]
Language: eng
Format: epub
Tags: Sea Adventures, Action & Adventure, Genre Fiction, Thrillers, Science Fiction & Fantasy, Men's Adventure, Adventure, Education & Reference, Mystery; Thriller & Suspense, Science Fiction, Words; Language & Grammar, Literature & Fiction, Single Author, Suspense, short stories, Single Authors, thriller
ISBN: 9781592122929
Amazon: 1592122922
Goodreads: 12266596
Publisher: Galaxy Audio
Published: 1935-10-01T08:00:00+00:00

CHAPTER SIX

Escape

THE doleful clacks of a big clock were loud in the brooding solemnness of the gray hall. Far away the sea muttered and clawed at the black cliffs, a restless grasping sea shifting uneasily under the midnight sky.

The guard at Spar’s door grunted wearily, leaning against the panel, staring with vacant eyes into the gray gloom, holding a rifle carelessly before him on the rough stone.

The bearded, wasted face of the guard was creased with a hundred deep lines, each one more evil than the next. For murder, for assault, to the prison camps, and then, after rescue, to the festering sore called Hurricane Hill.

The panel moved an inch, unheard. A white hand slid easily through the crack, sinuous, softly venomous. The fingers advanced slowly. Suddenly the hand blurred. The guard dropped his gun and jerked his fists to his throat, eyes already staring.

Another hand caught the rifle before it fell, propped it against the wall. The body of the guard was laid its length upon the flinty stone.

Spar stepped all the way out of his room and looked up and down the corridor. Only the moaning wind greeted him there in the drafty dimness. He put away the length of bedspring wire with which he had quietly picked the lock.

Feeling his way, with never a backward glance at the dead guard, Spar went along through the shadows, melting into them.

He reached the main room. One bulb burned in the chandelier, casting down a pool of yellow light over the mammoth table, deepening the blackness of the arches, thickening rather than lightening the dense gloom.

Spar saw that the place was empty of men. He approached the staircase with cautious steps and started up. A faint stream of light came from the top landing and with it the scuff of leather on stone.

Spar continued his silent ascent, peering before him with all the intensity of his silver gray eyes. At last he saw that the light came from a slit under the door and that a shadow stood before it. Doubtless, it was a guard.

Without the least sound, Spar reached the landing. The guard suddenly moved forward, sensing another presence. Spar struck out. The sharp crack of the blow echoed through the dismal hallways and then the monotonous clacking of the clock was once more all the sound.

He eased the unconscious guard to the floor. The fellow’s mouth was running a thin trickle of sticky blood. The blow had been clean. Using a belt and the rifle sling, Spar securely bound the man.

He was about to rap on Peg Mannering’s door when he heard footsteps below. Looking down the stairway he could see that Enrico and Count Folston—the Saint—had entered the great hall. Not daring to make another move, Spar knelt and watched intently.

The words came up to him, hollow in the great emptiness of the place.

“Have you sent it?” said Folston.

“Ten minutes ago,” replied Enrico. “Chacktar attended to it. He should be back shortly with the answer.”

“If the fools in Martinique relay that radio, yes.

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