The Blind Spot by Homer Eon Flint and Austin Hall (black female authors txt) 📗

the Blind Spot, as he calls it. He's not a man to fool. He had eyes and he saw it. He will not leave it till he's dead.”

“But he did not see the Blind Spot, did he? How about trickery? Did it ever occur to you that the professor might have been murdered?”

“Take a look at that, Harry. Does that look like murder? When you see the man living?”

Watson reached over and turned up the jewel.

Here Hobart came in.

“Just a minute, Chick. My wise friend here is an attorney. He's always the first into everything, especially conversation. It's been my job pulling Harry out of trouble. Just one question.”

“All right.”

“Didn't you—er—keep company, as they say, with Bertha Holcomb while at college?”

A kind look came into the man's eyes; he nodded; his whole face was soft and saddened.

“I see. That naturally brought you to the Blind Spot. You are after her father. Am I correct?”

“Exactly.”

“All right. Perhaps Bertha has taken you into some of her father's secrets. He undoubtedly had data on this Blind Spot. Have you ever been able to locate it?”

“No!”

“I see. This Rhamda? Has he ever sought that data?”

“Many, many times.”

“Does he know you haven't got it?”

“No.”

“So. I understand. You hold the whip hand through your ignorance. Rhamda is your villain—and perhaps this Nervina? Who is she?”

“A goddess.”

Hobart smiled.

“Oh, yes!” He laughed. “A goddess. Naturally! They all are. There are about forty in this room at the present moment, my dear fellow. Watch them dance!”

Now I had picked up the ring. It just fitted the natural finger. I tried it on and looked into the jewel. The professor was growing dimmer. The marvellous blue was returning, a hue of fascination; not the hot flash of the diamond, but the frozen light of the iceberg. It was frigid, cold, terrible, blue, alluring. To me at the moment it seemed alive and pulselike. I could not account for it. I felt the lust for possession. Perhaps there was something in my face. Watson leaned over and touched me on the arm.

“Harry,” he asked, “do you think you can stand up under the burden? Will you take my place?”

I looked into his eyes; in their black depths was almost entreaty. How haunting they were, and beseeching.

“Will you take my place?” he begged. “Are you willing to give up all that God gives to the fortunate? Will you give up your practice? Will you hold out to the end? Never surrender? Will—”

“You mean will I take this ring?”

He nodded.

“Exactly. But you must know beforehand. It would be murder to give it to you without the warning. Either your death or that of Dr. Holcomb. It is not a simple jewel. It defies description. It takes a man to wear it. It is subtle and of destruction; it eats like a canker; it destroys the body; it frightens the soul—”

“An ominous piece of finery,” I spoke. “Wherein—”

But Watson interrupted. There was appeal in his eyes.

“Harry,” he went on, “I am asking. Somebody has got to wear this ring. He must be a man. He must be fearless; he must taunt the devil. It is hard work, I assure you. I cannot last much longer. You loved the old doctor. If we get at this law we have done more for mankind than either of us may do with his profession. We must save the old professor. He is living and he is waiting. There are perils and forces that we do not know of. The doctor went at it alone and fearless; he succumbed to his own wisdom. I have followed after, and I have been crushed down—perhaps by my ignorance. I am not afraid. But I don't want my work to die. Somebody has got to take it on and you are the man.”

They were all of them looking at me. I studied the wonderful blue and its light. The image of the great professor had dimmed almost completely. It was a sudden task and a great one. Here was a law; one of the great secrets of Cosmos. What was it? Somehow the lure caught into my vitals. I couldn't picture myself ever coming to the extremity of my companion. Besides, it was a duty. I owed it to the old doctor. It seemed somehow that he was speaking. Though Watson did the talking I could feel him calling. Would I be afraid? Besides, there was the jewel. It was calling; already I could feel it burning into my spirit. I looked up.

“Do you take it, Harry?”

I nodded.

“I do. God knows I am worthless enough. I'll take it up. It may give me a chance to engage with this famous Rhamda.”

“Be careful of Rhamda, Harry. And above all don't let him have the ring.”

“Why?”

“Because. Now listen. I'm not laying this absolutely, understand. Nevertheless the facts all point in one direction. Hold the ring. Somewhere in that lustre lies a great secret; it controls the Blind Spot. The Rhamda himself may not take it off your finger. You are immune from violence. Only the ring itself may kill you.”

He coughed.

“God knows,” he spoke, “it has killed me.”

It was rather ominous. The mere fact of that cough and his weakness was enough. One would come to this. He had warned me, and he had besought me with the same voice as the warning.

“But what is the Blind Spot?”

“Then you take the ring? What is the time? Twelve. Gentlemen—”

Now here comes in one of the strange parts of my story—one that I cannot account for. Over the shoulder of Dr. Hansen I could watch the door. Whether it was the ring or not I do not know. At the time I did not reason. I acted upon impulse. It was an act beyond good breeding. I had never done such a thing before. I had never even seen the woman.

The woman? Why do I say it? She was never a woman—she was a girl—far, far transcendent. It was the first time I had ever seen her—standing there before the door. I had never beheld such beauty, such profile, poise—the witching, laughing, night-black of her eyes; the perfectly bridged nose and the red, red lips that smiled, it seemed to me, in sadness. She hesitated, and as if