The Room Under the Stairs

Sun (Auckland), Volume III, Issue 845, 13 December 1929, Page 5

The Room Under the Stairs

The Baffling Story of a Man Who Read of His Own Murder.

By

Herman Landon

Copyright by G. Howard Watt. Serialised by Ledger Syndicate.

CHAPTER V. Dean found no answer for a moment. He realised that, from every point of view but his own, the evidence was complete. "I am just wondering,” he said at length, “what I would do with the material if 1 were to work it into a mystery yarn. As the case stands, there is no mystery. Lamont murdered Paul Forrester, keeping his guilt a secret until he was about to die. Then ho made a circumstantial confession, and that’s all there is to it. To create a mystery, I would have to juggle the circumstances a bit, and I think I should begin with the contents of the room under the stairs. That’s where I w-ould look for the unknown factor in the situation. “Unknown factor?” Shane regarded him blankly. "But there is no unknown factor.” “Call it an element of reasonable doubt, then.” The lieutenant shook his head. “Too much for me.” ho confessed. “But go ahead and spin your little yarn. I’ve »uck to facts so long that I like to listen to a man with an imagination like yours. Where is your reasonable doubt, as you call It?” In the circumstance that it is now too late to identify the body in the room under the stairs. “So that’s it! Well, Dean. I must confess that I expected something better from you than that. In the first place, in view of all the other circumstances, no identification is necessary. In the second place, I found certain things in the room under the Mairs, things which time and the rats hadn’t done away with yet, and they can still be identified. This is one of them.” IDENTIFICATION From his pocket came a small object wrapped in tissue paper. He opened it gingerly and held it under heart’s popping eyes. It was a gold "atch. Even before Dean saw the initials “P” and “F” engraved on tne hack, hia mind received a fresh jolt. The watch was one he had carried a number of years ago, though at the

moment lie was too dazed to recall how it had left his possession. ’’ldentification enough, I guess,” Shane declared, putting the watch back in its wrapping and returning it to his pocket. “You will have to try again, Dean.” THEORIES. The novelist nodded dully. He restrained a wild impulse to shout to Shane that a mistake had been made, that the watch was his property, that he was Paul Forrester, but he realised in time how useless it would be. Shane would either think that he was indulging in a poor jest, or that he had suddenly gone insane. And then it suddenly occurred to Dean that he might find several obstacles in his way if he should ever wish to prove that he was Paul Forrester. People would either laugh at him or look at him pityingly, just as Shane would have done a moment ago if he had blurted out the statement that had been on the tip of his tongue. Lamoat’s deathbed confession seemed to have cut every link connecting him with his past. “Of course,” said Shane, as if trying to humour him, “if you insist we’ll ask Lamont if he’s positive the man he killed was Paul Forrester. The joke may keep him alive another day.” For a time they rode in silence, Dean’s mind conceiving and discarding ali sorts of fanciful theories. Now and then there flashed through his mind the suspicion that some sort of dual identity was responsible for the amazing situation. The supposition seemed absurd, but nothing that was within the range of reason fitted the circumstances. He wondered if it were possible that Lamont had killed a man whose name was Paul Forrester, whose description tallied with that of Paul Forrester, who had been In the Forrester house on the night of the murder, and who had carried Paul Forrester's watch in his pocket, yet was not the same Paul Forrester who was now known as Thomas Dean. His reason promptly quashed the idea. Such a combination of circumstances had never existed and never would. Yet, unless he resorted to a supernatural explanation, it seemed to be the only theory that covered the facts in the case. With a slight start he looked up from his profitless musings, uncomfortably aware that the oldish man in the seat opposite the one occupied by himself and his companion was regarding him with a rather sustained glance. More embarrassing still, his gaze seemed fixed on the point where Dean’s collar obscured the blemish on his neck. Perhaps he was only imagining; he was often seized with an absurd feeling that the scar was exposed to tlie view of any one who cared to look. The man in the opposite seat might be in the habit Qf looking at people like that. And his gaze, though fixed, was not at all curious. Dean resolved he had been mistaken again, but in the next moment a grimly fantastic idea struck him. He wondered whether the other Paul Forrester, if such a person had ever existed, had also been afflicted with a blemish of that kind. Since the resemblance covered so many other points, why not also this It was a preposterous reflection, but well suited to his mood, just the kind of vagary that was apt to steal into a mind incapacitated for sane and sober thought. , , A moment later the tram stopped at Kew Gardens. BESIDE THE DEATHBED The residence of Dennis Littleby, the lawyer, was a substantial structure of unlovely architecture and a somewhat forbidding aspect. It had a dreary and ancient look that set it off from its more modern neighbours in the suburban community, and evidently it had been built many yea.s ago, in anticipation of the rapid ex-

pansion of the city that drove the cows away from what not so long ago had been rolling prairie. A servant admitted them and Shane announced that they wished to speak with the master of the house. They were shown into a gloomy drawing room, the servant admonishing them to he quiet, as Mr. Lamont was very low, but the warning scarcely seemed necessary, for in that dispiriting atmosphere it came natural to walk softly ar:d speak in whispers. Soon Littleby appeared, a long, thin and saturnine man with hard grey eyes, whose beetling brows seemed to accentuate their sharp lustre. He was possibly in his late fifties. His nose was long and narrow and seemed to be constantly on the alert for stray scents. Together with the thin and tightly Compressed lips it gave him an appearance of owlish intentness. “My friend Lamont is a very sick man,” he announced gravely in reply to Shane’s inquiry. “It is doubtful whether he will live through the night. I left my office early, though I have pressing business on hand, wishing to be within call if he should need me. What’s your pleasure, gentlemen?” , The lieutenant explained that they wished to see the sick man. Littleby frowned and fingered the gold-rimmed pince-nez that hung from a ribbon around his neck. “Doctor Ballinger has just left,” he explained, “leaving orders that he was to be called immediately in the event of a change iu Lamont’s condition. He gave no directions in regard to visitors. I suppose you may see him, but I doubt whether he will be able to tell you anything. What do you wish to discuss with him?” Shano introduced the novelist, and instantly the latter felt the scrutiny of the lawyer’s eyes, penetrating and yet unobtrusive, giving him the impression of being in the presence of a subtle and forceful personality. “As you know, Mr. Littleby,” said the lieutenant, somewhat apologetically, “it is my job to look into every angle of this case. I don’t want to slip up on anything. My friend Dean here, who has a lively imagination, has an idea that the man Lamont killed might have been somebody else than Paul Forrester.” Dean was aware of an odd flicker in the eyes that regarded hint so fixedly and yet without the slightest hint of a stare. “I thought my client’s confession was quite conclusive on that point,” said the lawyer, dryly. “I don’t see what basis you can have for such an assumption, Mr. Dean.” The novelist felt an impulse to retort that his “assumption” was founded on the soundest possible basis, but he checked it in time. Without waiting for an answer, Littleby turned and motioned the two callers to follow him up a stairway. Dean felt a little awed as he meditated on the weird features of the forthcoming interview with the dying man. As yet • Shane had said nothing to Littleby in regard to his real, object in visiting the sick chamber, but Dean knew what that object was. The lieutenant wished to verify his hunch, as he had expressed it, that the guilt of murder was not the only thing that was troubling Lamont. They entered a large, heavily furnished room, illuminated by a single electric light. There was a reek of medicaments in the air, and also, as Dean instantly perceived, that vague and nameless essence which is often present in a room where death stands at the threshold. The dying man lay on his back in a huge fourposter bed, his grey-fringed head propped up witlj pillows, his shrivelled and ashen face staring rigidly at the ceiling. His breath came hard and raspingly, but for the present he seemed to suffer no pain. At a whispered word from the lawyer, the nurse in attendance withdrew. The lieutenant sat down on a chair beside the bed, with Dean and Littleby watching behind his back. As yet the sick man seemed unaware that others were presents “Mr. Lamont,” said the lieutenant gently, and a paroxysm shook the man on the bed. He turned his head, and his eyes, with their shattered lustre, stared into the faces of the three watchers. “These are friends of mine,” Littleby explained, “They wish to ask you a few questions.” With a weary nod of comprehension the sick man resumed his original position. “I want to a§k you a question, Mr. Lamont,” said Shane. “Have you any proof, aside from what you have already given us, that the man you killed five and a-half years ago was Paul Forrester?”

Tile rise and fall of the coverlet over the sick man’s chest stopped for a few moments. Lamout fixed a dazed look on the speaker. “Proof?” His voice was scarcely above a whisper. “Haven’t you enough already. What more do you want? Of course I killed him.” “You saw him clearly? There was a light in the room? Are you sure you didn’t mistake someone else for Paul Forrester?” A ghastly smile twisted the dying man’s lips. “I’m sure,” he said raspingly. “There was a light in the room. I saw him face to face. There was no mistake. Why do you ask me?” His voice grew feebler and feebler with each sentence, and there were little pauses between the words. “Think hard, Mr. Lamont. Can’t you think of something else that will convince us that the man you killed was Paul Forrester? Wasn’t something said by Forrester that would have identified him even if the room had been dark and you hadn’t been able to see his face? Or did you notice anything else —” Shane paused and leaned over the bed, the better to hear what the sick man was about to say. Even from where he stood behind the lieutenant, Dean could see that a change had come over Lamont’s face. The lawyer stood tense and expectant beside him, waiting for the dying man's answer. Shane was looking intently into the bloodless face, and Dean knew that he was less interested in the forthcoming answer than in ferreting out the secret which he believed the dying man was still keeping. Then Lamont turned his head until his eyes fixed on the small table beside the bed. A few bottles were standing there, also an extension telephone Dean, watching him with tremendous interest, saw his eyes grow wild as they fell on the nickel-trimmed instrument. He could mot understand, but Lamont was staring at the telephone as if it were an object of extreme horror. Shane too appeared to notice the sick man’s strange behaviour, but he merely repeated his Question. “Didn’t you notice anything else, Mr. Lamont?” THE SCAR For a moment longer the sick man’s eyes were fixed with shuddering intentness on the telephone, then he wrenched his gaze from it. “Anything else? Yes, there was—something else,” he said brokenly. “Forrester ducked to escape the blow when I struck out at him. He twisted his neck a little, and then—then 1 saw the scar.” “The scar?” echoed Shane in perplexed tones, while a chill quiver ran down Dean’s back. “Yes,” the scar,” mumbled Lamont. “I saw it plainly when he ducked and craned his neck to dodge the blow. A big livid scar that looked like an old knife wound. I can see it yet.” The sick man closed his eye. Dean, with a whirling tumult in his head, moved toward the bed. He felt he must see at closer range the face of the man who had just made that astounding statement. “You are sure of that?” he asked, sharply, heedless of what the others might think of his conduct. “You’re positive you saw a scar on Forrester’s neck?” Lamont turned his head a little; his eyes, with the fluctuating sparkle’, widened slightly. While Littleby remained in the background, Dean leaned over the dying man to catch the answer that trembled oil his bluetinged lips. “Yes, I’m posi —” Lamont’s words choked on a queer gurgling sound. A great tremor shook his shrunken figure, propped up against the pillows. His face grew rigid, with lips agape and eyes staring. His chest heaved, and a deeper pallor settled over his shrunken features. Dean, still leaning forward, heard a perplexed mutter at his back. It came from Shane, who understood nothing, but sat engrossed with the spectacle that was being enacted before his eyes. The sudden transformation in the sick man was startling enough to absorb him. In the rear stood Littleby, tall and sombre, his fingers restlessly picking at the ribbon of his glasses. Then Lamont reached down and, summoning all his paltry strength, raised himself a little higher on the pillow's. Dean felt a clammy hand running along the edge of his collar. The physical contact gave him a chill, but his mental revulsion was still greater. In a twinkling he knew' the reason for the sick man’s feverish

excitement. Lamont had. seen the scar. Their eyes met, staring into each other, ahd Dean writhed for a moment beneath the dreadful spell of the other’s flaming orbs. Then Lamont’s head rose higher. It seined as if all the force that was left in him was being spent in that slow upward movement. His eyes grew wider and more terrifyingly bright, shattering the film that had dimmed them a few minutes ago. For a little he sat thus, rigid in every muscle, and then another violent spasm shook him. The mouth sagged, the eyes lost a portion of their feverish lustre, a shadow spread over the gaunt face, a long trembling cry broke from his lips and his head fell back against the pillows. Littleby threw the door open and called loudly to the nurse. She entered quickly, gave the man on the bed a swift, calm inspection and reached for a hypodermic needle. “Not—dead?” asked Littleby. “No, but he has had a severe shock. Please telephone Dr. Ballinger. And you gentlemen must leave him at once.” The lawyer hurried out. Lieutenant Shane jerked up his broad shoulders, drew a long breath and whispered to Dean. “Let’s go,” he said. CHAPTER VI. THE SCARRED NECK. “Creepy, wasn’t it?” asked Shane as they walked toward the station. “What did you make of it, Dean?” Dean did not answer immediately. His mind was still a whirl. The awful moment when Lamont’s eyes stared into his while the lustre slowly faded out of them was inflaming his senses like some ghastly dream. The lieutenant’s covert scrutiny , brought him back to the present. “I don’t know, Shane,” he said tonelessly. “I haven’t the least idea what it meant.” It was partly true. Though Dean knew that he had been the direct cause of the sick man’s agitation, and though he understood the meaning of the weird scene that had preceded Lamont’s collapse, the mystery was in nowise lessened. He turned as hurried footsteps sounded behind him. It was Littlebyj pale and slightly out of breath. “What did you think of it, gentlemen?” It was Shane who spoke the question, looking fixedly at the lawyer. Littleby gave one of his eloquent shrugs. “There is no accounting for a dying man’s preoccupations. All sorts of strange fancies come to people at times like that. It probably meant nothing at all.” Dean gave him a curious glance. He felt that the lawyer had been guilty of an evasion, or perhaps he had only been trying to reassure himself. “What was that about a scar?” asked Shane, directing the question to Dean. The novelist hesitated. To push back his collar, and expose the scar on his neck would have delighted his dramatic sense, but he checked the mad impulse in time. “Why ask me?” he rejoined. “I heard Lamont say that he saw a scar on Forrester’s neck. Do either of you gentlemen happen to know whether Forrester carried such a scar? If we could establish that he did, the last possibility of a case of mistaken identity would vanish.” Shane said he had no information on that point, while Littleby merely shook his head. They came to a corner drug store, and there the lawyer left them, explaining he was having a prescription refilled. Dean and the detective walked on to the station, each feeling an awkward hesitancy. A curious tension seemed to have grown up between them in the last half hour. (To Be Continued Tomorrow.)