Potbury stared at him. “I know them,” Randall said. “They won’t fool me again. The Bird is Cruel.”
Potbury covered his face with his hands.
They both stood perfectly still for several seconds. It took that long for a new idea to percolate through Randall’s abused and bemused mind. When it did he kicked Potbury in the crotch. The events of the next few seconds were rather confused. Potbury made no outcry, but fought back. Randall made no attempt to fight fair, but followed up his first panzer stroke with more dirty work.
When matters straightened out, Potbury was behind the bathroom door, whereas Randall was on the bedroom side with the key in his pocket. He was breathing hard but completely unaware of such minor damage as he had suffered.
Cynthia slept on.
“Mr. Randall — let me out of here!”
Randall had returned to his chair and was trying to think his way out of his predicament. He was fully sobered by now and made no attempt to consult the bottle. He was trying to get it through his head that there really were “Sons of the Bird” and that he had one of them locked up in there right now.
In that case Cynthia was unconscious because — God help them! — the Sons had stolen her soul. Devils — they had fallen afoul of devils.
Potbury pounded on the door. “What’s the meaning of this, Mr. Randall? Have you lost your mind? Let me out of here!”
“What’ll you do if I do? Will you bring Cynthia back to life?”
“I’ll do what a physician can for her. Why did you do it?”
“You know why. Why did you cover your face?”
“What do you mean? I started to sneeze and you kicked me.”
“Maybe I should have said, ‘Gesundheit!’ You’re a devil, Potbury. You’re a Son of the Bird!”
There was a short silence. “What nonsense is this?”
Randall thought about it. Maybe it was nonsense; maybe Potbury had been about to sneeze. No! This was the only explanation that made sense. Devils, devils and black magic. Stoles and Phipps and Potbury and the others.
Hoag? That would account for — wait a minute, now. Potbury hated Hoag. Stoles hated Hoag. All the Sons of the Bird hated Hoag. Very well, devil or whatever, he and Hoag were on the same side.
Potbury was pounding on the door again, no longer with his fists, but with a heavier, less frequent blow which meant the shoulder with the whole weight of the body behind it. The door was no stronger than interior house doors usually are; it was evident that it could take little of such treatment.
Randall pounded on his side. “Potbury! Potbury! Do you hear me?”
“Yes.”
“Do you know what I’m going to do now? I’m going to call up Hoag and get him to come over here. Do you hear that, Potbury? He’ll kill you, Potbury, he’ll kill you!”
There was no answer, but presently the heavy pounding resumed. Randall got his gun. “Potbury!” No answer. “Potbury, cut that out or I’ll shoot.” The pounding did not even slacken.
Randall had a sudden inspiration. “Potbury — in the Name of the Bird — get away from that door!”
The noise stopped as if chopped off.
Randall listened and then pursued his advantage. “In the Name of the Bird, don’t touch that door again. Hear me, Potbury?” There was no answer, but the quiet continued.
It was early; Hoag was still at his home. He quite evidently was confused by Randall’s incoherent explanations, but he agreed to come over, at once, or a little quicker.
Randall went back into the bedroom and resumed his double vigil. He held his wife’s still, cool hand with his left hand; in his right he carried his gun, ready in case the invocation failed to bind. But the pounding was not resumed; there was a deathly silence in both rooms for some minutes. Then Randall heard, or imagined he heard, a faint scraping sibilance from the bathroom — an unaccountable and ominous sound.
He could think of nothing to do about it, so he did nothing. It went on for several minutes and stopped. After that — nothing.