The Locked Door

The reader will perhaps understand that at first everything was so strange about me, and my position was the outcome of such unexpected adventures, that I had no discernment of the relative strangeness of this or that thing. I followed the llama up the beach, and was overtaken by Montgomery, who asked me not to enter the stone enclosure. I noticed then that the puma in its cage and the pile of packages had been placed outside the entrance to this quadrangle.

Perhaps the reader will understand that, at first, everything around me seemed strange. I was in this situation because of such unexpected adventures. So I could not tell whether one thing was stranger than another. I followed the llama up the beach, and Montgomery caught up with me. He asked me not to enter the stone enclosure. I then noticed that the caged puma and the pile of packages had been placed outside the enclosure’s entrance.

I turned and saw that the launch had now been unloaded, run out again, and was being beached, and the white-haired man was walking towards us. He addressed Montgomery.

I turned and saw that the launch had been unloaded and sent out again. It was now being brought ashore. The white-haired man was walking toward us. He spoke to Montgomery.

“And now comes the problem of this uninvited guest. What are we to do with him?”

“And now we have the problem of this uninvited guest. What should we do with him?”

“He knows something of science,” said Montgomery.

“He knows a little about science,” said Montgomery.

“I’m itching to get to work again—with this new stuff,” said the white-haired man, nodding towards the enclosure. His eyes grew brighter.

“I’m itching to get back to work with this new stuff,” said the white-haired man, nodding toward the enclosure. His eyes grew brighter.

“I daresay you are,” said Montgomery, in anything but a cordial tone.

“I suppose you are,” said Montgomery, in a distinctly unfriendly tone.

“We can’t send him over there, and we can’t spare the time to build him a new shanty; and we certainly can’t take him into our confidence just yet.”

“We can’t send him over there, and we don’t have time to build him a new hut. And we certainly can’t tell him our secrets just yet.”

“I’m in your hands,” said I. I had no idea of what he meant by “over there.”

“I’m in your hands,” I said. I had no idea what he meant by “over there.”

“I’ve been thinking of the same things,” Montgomery answered. “There’s my room with the outer door—”

“I’ve been thinking about the same things,” Montgomery answered. “There’s my room with the outer door...”

“That’s it,” said the elder man, promptly, looking at Montgomery; and all three of us went towards the enclosure. “I’m sorry to make a mystery, Mr. Prendick; but you’ll remember you’re uninvited. Our little establishment here contains a secret or so, is a kind of Blue-Beard’s chamber, in fact. Nothing very dreadful, really, to a sane man; but just now, as we don’t know you—”

“That’s it,” the older man said promptly, looking at Montgomery. All three of us went toward the enclosure. “I’m sorry to be mysterious, Mr. Prendick, but remember that you weren’t invited. Our little establishment here has a secret or two. It’s a kind of Blue-Beard’s chamber, in fact. There’s nothing very dreadful about it, really, to a sane man. But for now, since we don’t know you...”

“Decidedly,” said I, “I should be a fool to take offence at any want of confidence.”

“Certainly,” I said, “I'd be a fool to take offense at a lack of trust.”

He twisted his heavy mouth into a faint smile—he was one of those saturnine people who smile with the corners of the mouth down,—and bowed his acknowledgment of my complaisance. The main entrance to the enclosure was passed; it was a heavy wooden gate, framed in iron and locked, with the cargo of the launch piled outside it, and at the corner we came to a small doorway I had not previously observed. The white-haired man produced a bundle of keys from the pocket of his greasy blue jacket, opened this door, and entered. His keys, and the elaborate locking-up of the place even while it was still under his eye, struck me as peculiar. I followed him, and found myself in a small apartment, plainly but not uncomfortably furnished and with its inner door, which was slightly ajar, opening into a paved courtyard. This inner door Montgomery at once closed. A hammock was slung across the darker corner of the room, and a small unglazed window defended by an iron bar looked out towards the sea.

He twisted his heavy mouth into a faint smile and bowed to acknowledge my willingness to oblige. He was one of those gloomy people who smile with the corners of their mouths turned down. We passed the main entrance to the enclosure. It was a heavy wooden gate, framed in iron and locked, with the launch’s cargo piled outside it. At the corner, we came to a small doorway I had not noticed before. The white-haired man took a bunch of keys from his greasy blue jacket, unlocked the door, and entered. His keys struck me as peculiar, as did the elaborate precautions to lock the place up, even while he was watching it. I followed him into a small room, plainly but comfortably furnished. Its inner door stood slightly open, leading into a paved courtyard. Montgomery immediately closed it. A hammock hung across the darker corner of the room. A small window without glass, protected by an iron bar, looked out toward the sea.

This the white-haired man told me was to be my apartment; and the inner door, which “for fear of accidents,” he said, he would lock on the other side, was my limit inward. He called my attention to a convenient deck-chair before the window, and to an array of old books, chiefly, I found, surgical works and editions of the Latin and Greek classics (languages I cannot read with any comfort), on a shelf near the hammock. He left the room by the outer door, as if to avoid opening the inner one again.

The white-haired man told me this room would be mine. The inner door marked how far I could go inside. He said he would lock it from the other side “for fear of accidents.” He pointed out a convenient deck chair in front of the window. He also showed me a collection of old books on a shelf near the hammock. I found they were mostly surgical works and editions of Latin and Greek classics. I cannot read those languages with any comfort. He left the room through the outer door, as if to avoid opening the inner one again.

“We usually have our meals in here,” said Montgomery, and then, as if in doubt, went out after the other. “Moreau!” I heard him call, and for the moment I do not think I noticed. Then as I handled the books on the shelf it came up in consciousness: Where had I heard the name of Moreau before? I sat down before the window, took out the biscuits that still remained to me, and ate them with an excellent appetite. Moreau!

“We usually eat our meals in here,” said Montgomery. Then, as if unsure, he went out after the other man. “Moreau!” I heard him call. I do not think I noticed the name at first. Then, as I handled the books on the shelf, I became aware of it. Where had I heard the name Moreau before? I sat down by the window, took out the biscuits I had left, and ate them with a hearty appetite. Moreau!

Through the window I saw one of those unaccountable men in white, lugging a packing-case along the beach. Presently the window-frame hid him. Then I heard a key inserted and turned in the lock behind me. After a little while I heard through the locked door the noise of the staghounds, that had now been brought up from the beach. They were not barking, but sniffing and growling in a curious fashion. I could hear the rapid patter of their feet, and Montgomery’s voice soothing them.

Through the window, I saw one of those mysterious men in white dragging a packing crate along the beach. Soon the window frame hid him from view. Then I heard a key being inserted and turned in the lock behind me. A little later, I heard the staghounds through the locked door. They had now been brought up from the beach. They were not barking, but sniffing and growling strangely. I could hear the quick patter of their feet and Montgomery’s voice soothing them.

I was very much impressed by the elaborate secrecy of these two men regarding the contents of the place, and for some time I was thinking of that and of the unaccountable familiarity of the name of Moreau; but so odd is the human memory that I could not then recall that well-known name in its proper connection. From that my thoughts went to the indefinable queerness of the deformed man on the beach. I never saw such a gait, such odd motions as he pulled at the box. I recalled that none of these men had spoken to me, though most of them I had found looking at me at one time or another in a peculiarly furtive manner, quite unlike the frank stare of your unsophisticated savage. Indeed, they had all seemed remarkably taciturn, and when they did speak, endowed with very uncanny voices. What was wrong with them? Then I recalled the eyes of Montgomery’s ungainly attendant.

I was struck by how carefully the two men kept the contents of the place secret. For some time, I thought about that and about why the name Moreau seemed so strangely familiar. But human memory is odd, and I could not recall where I knew that famous name from. Then my thoughts turned to the strange quality I could not define in the deformed man on the beach. I had never seen anyone walk like that or move so oddly while pulling at a box. I remembered that none of these men had spoken to me. Yet at one time or another, I had caught most of them looking at me with peculiar secrecy. It was quite unlike the open stare of an unsophisticated savage. Indeed, they had all seemed remarkably quiet, and when they did speak, their voices were very eerie. What was wrong with them? Then I remembered the eyes of Montgomery’s awkward attendant.

Just as I was thinking of him he came in. He was now dressed in white, and carried a little tray with some coffee and boiled vegetables thereon. I could hardly repress a shuddering recoil as he came, bending amiably, and placed the tray before me on the table. Then astonishment paralysed me. Under his stringy black locks I saw his ear; it jumped upon me suddenly close to my face. The man had pointed ears, covered with a fine brown fur!

Just as I was thinking of him, he came in. He was now dressed in white and carried a small tray with coffee and boiled vegetables on it. I could hardly keep from shuddering and drawing back as he approached. He bent over pleasantly and placed the tray on the table in front of me. Then amazement froze me. I saw his ear beneath his stringy black hair. It suddenly appeared close to my face. The man had pointed ears, covered with fine brown fur!

“Your breakfast, sair,” he said.

“Your breakfast, sir,” he said.

I stared at his face without attempting to answer him. He turned and went towards the door, regarding me oddly over his shoulder. I followed him out with my eyes; and as I did so, by some odd trick of unconscious cerebration, there came surging into my head the phrase, “The Moreau Hollows”—was it? “The Moreau—” Ah! It sent my memory back ten years. “The Moreau Horrors!” The phrase drifted loose in my mind for a moment, and then I saw it in red lettering on a little buff-coloured pamphlet, to read which made one shiver and creep. Then I remembered distinctly all about it. That long-forgotten pamphlet came back with startling vividness to my mind. I had been a mere lad then, and Moreau was, I suppose, about fifty,—a prominent and masterful physiologist, well-known in scientific circles for his extraordinary imagination and his brutal directness in discussion.

I stared at his face without trying to answer. He turned and walked toward the door, looking back at me strangely over his shoulder. I watched him leave. As I did, some strange unconscious process brought a phrase rushing into my mind. “The Moreau Hollows”, was it? “The Moreau...” Ah! It took my memory back ten years. “The Moreau Horrors!” The phrase floated in my mind for a moment. Then I saw it in red letters on a small, beige pamphlet. Reading it made one shiver and recoil. Then I remembered everything about it clearly. The long-forgotten pamphlet came back to me with startling vividness. I had been just a boy then, and Moreau was, I suppose, about fifty. He was a prominent and commanding physiologist, well known in scientific circles for his extraordinary imagination and his brutal directness in discussion.

Was this the same Moreau? He had published some very astonishing facts in connection with the transfusion of blood, and in addition was known to be doing valuable work on morbid growths. Then suddenly his career was closed. He had to leave England. A journalist obtained access to his laboratory in the capacity of laboratory-assistant, with the deliberate intention of making sensational exposures; and by the help of a shocking accident (if it was an accident), his gruesome pamphlet became notorious. On the day of its publication a wretched dog, flayed and otherwise mutilated, escaped from Moreau’s house. It was in the silly season, and a prominent editor, a cousin of the temporary laboratory-assistant, appealed to the conscience of the nation. It was not the first time that conscience has turned against the methods of research. The doctor was simply howled out of the country. It may be that he deserved to be; but I still think that the tepid support of his fellow-investigators and his desertion by the great body of scientific workers was a shameful thing. Yet some of his experiments, by the journalist’s account, were wantonly cruel. He might perhaps have purchased his social peace by abandoning his investigations; but he apparently preferred the latter, as most men would who have once fallen under the overmastering spell of research. He was unmarried, and had indeed nothing but his own interest to consider.

Was this the same Moreau? He had published some astonishing findings about blood transfusions. He was also known for valuable work on abnormal growths. Then his career suddenly ended. He had to leave England. A journalist had gained access to his laboratory by posing as a laboratory assistant. He had done so with the deliberate intention of exposing Moreau’s work in a sensational way. A shocking accident helped make the journalist’s gruesome pamphlet notorious, if it was an accident. On the day the pamphlet appeared, a wretched dog escaped from Moreau’s house, skinned and otherwise mutilated. It was the slow news season, and a prominent editor appealed to the conscience of the nation. The editor was a cousin of the temporary laboratory assistant. It was not the first time the nation’s conscience had turned against research methods. The doctor was simply driven out of the country by public outrage. Perhaps he deserved it. But I still think it was shameful that his fellow researchers gave him such lukewarm support. The wider scientific community abandoned him, and that was shameful too. Yet, according to the journalist, some of his experiments were needlessly cruel. He might perhaps have been left in peace by society if he had given up his investigations. But he apparently preferred to continue them, as most men would once they had fallen under the overpowering spell of research. He was unmarried and had only his own interests to consider.

I felt convinced that this must be the same man. Everything pointed to it. It dawned upon me to what end the puma and the other animals—which had now been brought with other luggage into the enclosure behind the house—were destined; and a curious faint odour, the halitus of something familiar, an odour that had been in the background of my consciousness hitherto, suddenly came forward into the forefront of my thoughts. It was the antiseptic odour of the dissecting-room. I heard the puma growling through the wall, and one of the dogs yelped as though it had been struck.

I was convinced this must be the same man. Everything pointed to it. The puma and the other animals had now been brought into the enclosure behind the house with the other luggage. I realized what they were meant for. And a strange, faint smell suddenly came to the front of my mind. It was familiar, and I had been dimly aware of it until now. It was the antiseptic smell of a dissecting room. I heard the puma growling through the wall, and one of the dogs yelped as though it had been hit.

Yet surely, and especially to another scientific man, there was nothing so horrible in vivisection as to account for this secrecy; and by some odd leap in my thoughts the pointed ears and luminous eyes of Montgomery’s attendant came back again before me with the sharpest definition. I stared before me out at the green sea, frothing under a freshening breeze, and let these and other strange memories of the last few days chase one another through my mind.

Yet surely vivisection was not so horrible that it required such secrecy, especially from another scientist. Then, by a strange leap of thought, I pictured Montgomery’s attendant again. His pointed ears and glowing eyes stood out with startling clarity. I stared out at the green sea, foaming under a strengthening breeze. I let these and other strange memories of the past few days chase one another through my mind.

What could it all mean? A locked enclosure on a lonely island, a notorious vivisector, and these crippled and distorted men?

What could it all mean? A locked enclosure on a remote island, a notorious animal experimenter, and these crippled and disfigured men?