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At three o’clock the mantle clock chimed the hour. (Jason had discovered that it still worked when he wound the mechanism with its key.) As if on cue, they heard feet stomping on the front porch, the sound of the creaking door, and moments later saw Archibald Devane’s wry expression, coupled with a broad grin.
“Ah! Mr. Devane,” Erik greeted him warmly.
The old man nodded to the six, slipped off his slicker and moved into the room.
“I see you’re making yourselves at home,” he said.
“We’ll put everything back where we found it when we leave.”
“No matter. I can take care of it.”
“We wouldn’t think of making you do that.”
He nodded.
“Perhaps, though,” Erik continued somewhat cautiously, “you could us tell a little about Mr. Christian Barth—his house…” he paused to find appropriate words, “has some unusual features.”
“Ah, you’ve noticed?”
“The O-rings are pretty obvious.”
“They are conversation pieces, aren’t they?” Devane strolled forward, passing by the marble statue of the bound woman, gazing at her almost wantingly with a parched mouth and haunted eyes. Then, he stared at the six visitors still seated at the table with their deck of cards haphazardly strewn between them.
“Is there some simple explanation?” Erik asked, baffled by the man’s sudden vagueness.
“Oh, yes,” he said, though he hesitated to continue until, at last, his gaze met each woman with such an alarmingly erotic aspect that all three seemed to quicken sexually. Moving past the table, he rambled toward one alcove beside the fireplace, reached high to lovingly finger an O-ring, and then dropped his hand and turned back. “What I say will shock you, I’m afraid. Though I imagine you are open-minded …”
“Yes,” Erik had to prompt him when he paused.
“As I said, Mr. Christian Barth owns this island… it is, in fact, an independent entity without allegiance to any country.”
“As I figured,” Matthew remarked.
“You might say that he created his own world here, free of restraints that modern society would place on behavior. He made up his own rules, created his own laws, and abided by them—as did anyone coming here—almost as though he had a military and the might to enforce his rule. Of course, compliance was voluntary—but no one on this island had the guts to revolt—or reason to, for that matter—except, perhaps, for a few wayward girls…humm women.”
“Mr. Devane, you’re talking in riddles,” Erik said flatly, sounding peeved.
“Not so,” the man countered quickly with his eyes sharpening like daggers. “My comments are merely a preface to the bald-faced facts. Mr. Barth was a sentient man of great hedonistic passion. He had a fondness for things of the flesh, for food, drink and especially women—especially subservient women. He was as well a sadist. He established this island principality as a haven for his unusual desires. So that he might practice them in peace, without the harassment of conventional society.”
“A sadist?” Sandra pondered the word quizzically.
“Yes, sadist,” Devane’s gaze narrowed on her.
“What does that mean?”
“Sadist, as in whips and chains,” Jason interjected.
“Ah, sir, much more than that. In truth, he owned a number of female slaves while he was in residence on the island.”
“In this century?” Laney exclaimed.
“I did say the 60’s and 70’s last night, did I not?” Devane seemed to flatten her with his quick barb.
“Yes, yes, you did,” she replied quietly.
“And I meant this century. If you’ve heard anything I’ve said, you’ll realize that Mr. Barth was an iconoclast, a depraved heathen in his own century, a throwback to centuries before when owning human flesh was at the very
least tolerated and at the best expected in certain portions of many societies—including your own United States.”
