But he had the habit of all talking parrots, big or little, of shutting up shop for hours at a stretch and not even a plantain or a plump mangosteen would tempt him to break his silence. A truculent little green bird, no bigger than a robin, but with the spirit of a disgruntled Bayard.
There were no doors up-stairs except to the cement shower. All the other doorways were hung with bead-and-bamboo curtains. Mathison parted the one which fell between the corridor and the dining-room. It tinkled mysteriously as it dropped behind him. Where was Bob? He listened. He could hear the parrakeet moving about in his cage. When agitated, Malachi had a way of pulling himself up to the swing and solemnly clambering down to the perch, repeating the maneuver over and over.
Mathison's glance trailed to the curtain between the dining-room and the living-room. A broad band of moonshine entered through one of the windows, broke against objects, splashed the lower fringe of the curtain, and ended in a magic pool on the grass matting.
It seemed to him as if every nerve and muscle in his body winced and pressed back. It was almost like a physical blow. It took a full minute for the vertigo to pass, and when it passed it left his tongue and lips dry, his throat hot.
In the center of that magic pool of moonshine was a hand, sinisterly inert.
CHAPTER IV
Mathison fought nausea, terror; fought the paralysis gathering in his legs, and pushed through the curtain, feeling along the wall for the key-button to all the lights. He blinked a moment in the glare that followed. Then, whichever way he looked—havoc!