The Room Under the Stairs

Sun (Auckland), Volume III, Issue 847, 16 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 Vll.—(Continued.) He stepped to the window and raised it a little, inhaled a lew times, looked out into the dim, silent street, far removed from the main arteries of nocturnal traffic, then turned and looked once more at the point between the table and the fireplace. It was (trimly fascinating to speculate ttat the murder had occurred there, that Lamont’s victim had fallen in this very spot. He came forward a few steps, his taze still fixed on the floor. Parts of it were covered w-ith a carpet, but this particular spot was bare. His speculations, though interesting, were leading him nowhere, and he took one of the candles and stepped out in the hall, reflecting that perhaps he was retracing the very path the murderer had travelled when he dragged his victim from the room. The candle drooped languishly in the stale air as he approached the room under the stairway. The door was open. Stifling his repugnance he stepped in. There a high of relief escaped him. The gruesome relics he had seen earlier in the day hart been removed, but. the air was ■ sf iil charged with something ghastly ■«nrt infinitely repelling. The room wa * clustered with an odd collection of books and papers and curious implements. Often he had seen his father use these things, but the purpose of them he had never been abie '*> comprehend. He had dim recollection of maps and diagrams and designs that had intrigued His boyish fancy and which his father, a taciturn and secretive man, had never explained. The room yielded nothing to his search, and from its disordered condition he gathered that Lieutenant bhace had probably made a thorough I

search. lie took the candle and returned to the living-room. He had scarcely known what he expected to find in the house, and now it began to look as if his search would he fruitless. Disappointed, and not knowing where to turn next, he sat down in one of the large upholstered chairs. A breeze was blowing in through the narrow opening at the window, and the candle flames winked and fluctuated, throwing creeping shadows over the floor. He watched them abstractedly, but now and then his glance went back to the bare spot between the table and the fireplace. It was odd what a magic effect it exerted on his senses, how it spurred his imagination to strange flights. Again the tragedy that Lament had so vividly described was re-enacted in his mental vision. He could see the dull brass of the fire tongs gleaming in the light as it described a curve in the air. and then the victim crouching swiftly to evade the blow, and iu doing so exposing a livid scar on his neck.

Of a sudden the picture faded away. Sitting erect iu the chair. Dean was 1 conscious of a curious impression. lie looked rigidly at the door leading to the dining-room. While his imagination was etching a picture of tragedy, it. seemed to have opened very softly, and he had a hazy impression that for an instant a face had appeared in the opening, regarding him with i wide, startled eyes. In a moment, candle in hand, he had passed through the door, but he returned shortly, deciding that his imagination had deceived him. Now he stepped to the fireplace and gazed down at the spot that held such a strange fascination for him. Presently | his eyes narrowed, and became fixed on a small crack between two boards lin the floor. Down there, in the tiny | crevice, something was winking up j at him with a coy, glassy sparkle. | Getting down on his knees to see what it was, he took out his pocket knife and prised out a piece of glass i that had lodged edgewise in the crack. It. might have been lying in that snug retreat a long time, secure against broom and vacuum cleaner. One could have crossed the floor a thousand times without seeing it. Dean had noticed it only because that particular spot in the flooring held a peculiar attraction for him. Now he got up and examined his find under one of the candles. It was a wedgeshaped sliver of glass, with one end I bevelled and slightly rounded. Its shape, and particularly the bevelled I edge, suggested that it was a part of a watch crystal. It seemed a far leap, but Dean's mind went back to the watch Lieutenant Shane had shown him. the one | bearing Paul Forrester's initials on i the back. The next moment he rea- ! Used that there could be no connec- j tion between the two objects. The fragment of glass in his hand could not have come from the watch Shane had shown him, for he remembered distinctly that the crystal of the latter had been intact. But he wrapped the fragment in his handkerchief and went back to the crack to search for more pieces. Soon he found one, much smaller than the other, deeply lodged in the crack. Again he prodded with his knife, but the small piece of glass was hard to get out of the crevice, and repeatedly it slipped off the blade of his knife. All at once he stopped, and two impressions flashed through his mind. He had been kneeling on the floor, with heat bent low and turned a little to one side. As a result of his position his collar had slid back, exposing the scar on the right side of his : neck. The thing was apt to happen | whenever he strained his neck, and i he never took any pains to avoid it j when he was alone. Now. however, i he had • distinct impression that he

was no longer alone. The slight creaking of a board had revealed some one’s stealthy approach. He looked up and saw Dennis Littleby. A PIECE OF GLASS Dean, still kneeling on the floor, noticed with a quiver of apprehension that Littleby appeared to be gazing fixedly at the exposed scar. Though the sulmmer night was warm, the lawyer’s long gaunt figure was wrapped in an overcoat. Stooping slightly forward he leaned heavily on a goldmounted walking-stick. The novelist sprang confusedly to his feet, and Littleby instantly shifted liis gaze. "Hello, Dean,” he said pleasantly, and there was nothing in the classical mould of his features to indicate that he had seen anything out of the ordinary. “Looking for something?” Dean smiled foolishly. For once he was at a loss for an answer. lie knew Littleby had seen the scar, and he was puzzled by the man’s rather elaborate presence that he had noticed nothing. Then he realised that the blemish' could mean nothing to the lawyer, despite Lamont’s state ment that he had seen such a mark on his victim’s neck. In itself, a scar was a trifling and rather ordinary thing. But Dean’s confusion was aggravated by the bland and yet oddly disconcerting way in which the lawyer stood there looking at him. Evidently Dennis Littleby was one of those characters who unfold panoramically, little by little. Dean felt that he was in contact with a dynamic personality, one who exerted a magnetism that was neither pleasant nor unpleasant but left the subject in a bewildered state of doubt. “t didn’t hear you come in,” said Dean lamely. “Evidently you were too preoccupied.’’ "Besides," Dean floundered on, “I thought you were at your home in Kew Gardens.”

“So I was, but Dr. Ballinger prescribed a sedative which put poor Laraont to sleep and gave me an opportunity to run into town and look over my mail. On my way back I couldn’t resist the temptation to drop in here and look over the scene of my client’s misdeed. The door was unlocked, so I walked in.” Dean could not contradict him, though he was almost certain that he had locked the door after entering. “Are you in doubt about Lampnt’s confession?” he asked. “Is that why you—ahem—dropped in?” “Oh, no. Mere curiosity.” The lawyer smiled a thin-lipped, disarming smile that yet had the effect of putting Dean on the alert. “May I ask what you expected to find in that crack between the boards?”

“You may,” said Dean, and now hi 3 smile was as inscrutable as the lawyer's, “but I may not care to answer.”

Littleby chuckled softly. “I think it was Oscar Wilde who said that questions are never embarrassing, but answers sometimes are.” . He bent his gaunt frame and looked sharply into the crack. “I may be able to gratify my curiosity without your assistance. H'm. I see nothing but a small piece of glass.” “There is nothing else to see, Mr. Littleby.” The lawyer stood erect, giving Dean a long glance out of his bright little eyes. Dean again went to work with his knife and, after repeated efforts, succeeded in dislodging the tiny splinter of glass. With great care, while the lawyer watched him in astonishment, he tucked it away in his handkerchief beside the larger fragment. “Why do you do that?” asked Littleby. “I hardly know.” Dean chuckled lightly. “I'm following the example of the detectives in my novels. They are always indulging in some sort of mysterious hocus-pocus. It is supposed to indicate a high degree of astuteness. The principle is simple. Do something that appears utterly useless and ridiculous, and the average man will swear you are a genius.”

“H’m.” Littleby's keen eyes appeared to take his measure. “1 don’t think I’ve read any of your novels. Dean.”

*T shall be pleased to send you a copy of my latest, but I warn you it is lurid melodrama. Anyhow, that's

how some of the critics describe it.” ‘‘l see. The kind of things that never happen in real life.” With a laugh that puzzled the lawyer, Dean nodded. “Precisely, Littleby. The kind of things that never happen in real life. If they ever did life would no longer seem real, and the lunatic asylums would be jammed.” A smile that seemed oddly pale in the light of the candles touched the lawyer’s lips. “You interest me, Dean.” “Thanks.” The novelist was again down on his knees examining the crack, but there seemed to be no more pieces of glass. “AVish I could find the rest,” he muttered. “No use, though. They must have been swept away. Too bad!” “What Avould you do with them if you found them?” Dean,got up from his kneeling position. “Why, I don’t know. I might try to find the watch they came from.” “Watch?” Littleby jerked out the word iu a queer tone. “The two pieces I found are fragments of a watch crystal, unless I am mistaken.” Dean rocked gently on his heels as he spoke, but his eyes did not leave the other man’s face. For a moment it seemed as if a mask had dropped from Littleby’s face. It lasted just long enough to convince Dean that he had stumbled upon another angle of the mystery, but in another instant the veil of inscrutabilities was back again. CHAPTER VIII. A PLAY OF WITS “You are a riddle, Dean,” said the lawyer. “Are you in the habit of walking into strange houses at night and looking for pieces of broken glass?” “I wouldn’t call it a habit. It’s a new hobby of mine.” “I suppose you realise you are trespassing?” It wasn’t true, but Dean could not contradict him. “I might ask you the same question,” he countered. “In which event I should follow your example and maintain a discreet silence.” He chuckled, evidently well pleased with himself. “Come now, Dean. Nothing gained by talking at cross purposes you know. Be as mysterious as you like about the pieces of glass, but tell me something else. AVhen did you first meet my friend Lamont?” “This evening, at. your house in Kew Gardens.” “Positive of that?” “As positive as I can be of anything.” “Lamont’s behaviour was very strange. The sight of you seemed to excite him tremendously. How do you explain it?” “I don’t. I was hoping you could throw some light on his strange behaviour.” “A\ 7 hy ?” “Being Lamont’s lawyer, you are in his confidence more or less, 1 take it.” “Rather less than more. He has told me nothing whatever that explains the way he stared at you just before he took that nasty turn. 1 tried to analyse the expression on his face, but it kept eluding me. What -would you have called it, Dean?” On a guess Dean would have called it a mingling of terror and startled recognition, but he did not care to confide in the lawyer. “I don’t think words could describe it,” he said evasively, then smiled engagingly. “It would be much easier for me to characterise the expression I see on your face this moment.” The lawyer started slightly. “And ; how would you characterise it?” he demanded stiffly. The novelist sighed. “It’s too late now. I’ve lost it. Your expressions are so ephemeral, Littleby, that one

needs a mind that works like a camera to catch them. A moment ago I thought you seemed greatly worried over something, but tried hard not to show it.” “Worried?” The lawyer’s laugh sounded not quite natural. “What should I worry about?” “Who knows? Two small pieces of glass, perhaps.” “You are a humorist, Dean. Being a close friend of Lamont’s, I can’t see the funny sjde of it as you do.” A scowl of bafflement darkened his face. “Curious case, Dean. I can’t help wondering what affected him so terrifically when you stood at his bedside. And as for the scar he mentioned —H’m. Something peculiar about that, too. I once heard of a man who had a scar in the exact position indicated by Lamont.” Dean stiffened. His hands started toward the right side of his neck, but he checked the movement in time. “That’s interesting.” he remarked, trying to seem only mildly curious. Littleby looked upward indefinitely, as if searching his memory. “The man I have in mind was accused of murder. He was never apprehended, as far as I know. It happened out West some years ago, and it was a particularly foul crime. As I recall the facts, he killed a defenceless trapper with whom his father had had a feud of some sort. Of course, it isn’t at all likely that this was the same man Lamont had in mind.” “No, not at all likely.” It required a tremendous effort on Dean’s part to speak calmly. The lawyer shrugged. “Well, I must be going,” he declared, -with a glance at his watch. “I felt a curiosity to look over the scene described in Lamont’s confession. You see,” and he chuckled apologetically, “I was a private detective before I went into law. The old habits cling. Well, good night, Dean. Hope you find the other piece of glass.” He walked away, but his faint smile haunted the no\ r elist. His mind was i echoing certain phrases Littleby had ! spoken: “ —a particularly foul crime— | defenceless trapper —a feud of some sort—never caught.” Was that how ! the tragedy on the frozen hillside had j appeared to the people of the com- ;

munity? No doubt time and mouth-to-mouth gossip bad distorted the episode out o£ all semblance to the true facts. Or had the lawyer deliberately put a dramatic veneer on the circumstances of Simon Cabell's death? If so, what had been his object? ‘Queer cuss!” he mumbled. "A look into Littleby’s mind would be illuminating. In regard to those pieces of glass, for instance. They mean something. Littleby knows what it is, but I don’t.” THE WRITING ON THE WALL Dean was a limp and exhausted man at the end of the weirdest —he could think of no other fitting adjective — day of his life, and in the end his aversion to a strange bed decided him to return to Top O’ Hill rather than go to a hotel for the night. It was nearly midnight when he reached the clump of woods that flanked the house in the rear and let himself in with the key he carried. Mrs. Blossom, who was given to regularity and decorum and couldn't understand why any normal man should wish to live in a spooky old house j that was in constant danger of the j roof tumbling in, always retired early. ! and she always enjoyed the sound slumber that goes with an easy con- ! science. Being bodily fatigued but mentally ' alert, Dean went to his workshop on ! the ground floor instead of retiring at once to his bedroom. He lighted the gas, stuffed his pipe with a villainous | mixture compounded by himself of I several pungent brands, tossed his un- ! finished manuscript into a drawer, and picked up a novel in the hope of reading himself to sleep. Soon he gave it up. His eyes skipped unseeingly over the printed lines while his mind dipped in and out of dark corners. He was not thinking of the two fragments of glass now; that was a matter that required a fresh mind and sustained effort. Instead his imagination kept re-enacting the scene in Lamont's bedroom. The subdued light and the stillness all around seemed to give a touch of realism to his mental picture of the sick man as he sat upright in bed and stared I wildly into Dean's face. Would he j ever forget the ghastly look he had ! seen in Lamont's shrunken eyes just

before he dropped back against the j pillows? Mad thoughts rushed through his brain. Had Lamont recognised him as Paul Forrester, the man he thought he had murdered? Recognition of an astounding sort was what Dean had read in the sick man's face, but how was he to reconcile this theory with the fact that, to the best of his knowledge, they had never met before? He could not be quite sure on this point, however, for of the thousands of faces he had seen in recent years his mind retained impressions of only a few. It was possible that Lamont, for reasons of his own, had studied him at a distance without Dean being aware of it. Too. j in his childhood he had often been told he had his father’s eyes and mouth, and it was conceivable that Lamont, granting that he had known the older Forrester, had recognised the resemblance. That would account, at least in part, for the look of dreadful recognition he had seen in the man's face. But it explained nothing else. It did not account for the amazing dovetailing of circumstances, or for the sick man’s detailed description of the person he had murdered in the Hudson Street house, or for the look of shuddering dread that had come into his face as he glanced at the telephone instrument at the bedside. Dismissing these inexplicable phases of the mystery. Dean’s thoughts turned to Littleby and his encounter with the lawyer in the Hudson Street house. The man's behaviour had been vaguely puzzling, and his curious personality, alternately magnetic and repelling, although it touched no extreme in either direction, had resisted all efforts to fathom his motives. His allusion to the trapper's death might have been only a random remark, but it could just as easily have been a slyly aimed thrust at the novelist. The latter supposition took for granted that the lawyer knew Dean's true identity, but such a presumption was hard to accept. Littleby had seen the scar on Dean's neck, and he had taken elaborate | pains to pretend either that he had not noticed it or that it meant no- : thing to him, but his demeanour , through it all really proved nothing t

except that the lawyer's mental processes ran a deep and devious course. “And that’s only natural, since he is a lawyer,” Dean told himself, finding that all his conjectures faded away in a haze. He was too tired to think, anyway. In the morning he would attack the problem with a fresh mind. Another talk with Lieutenant Shane might give him a new slant on things. He rose, knocked the ashes from his pipe, and his roving eyes paused on the big armchair beside the writing desk. A fresh, vivid picture blazed through the chaos in his mind. It was in that chair little Viola Gray had sat that morning. mouthing ecstatic trifles while unwittingly filling his mind with doubts as to her seeming ingenuousness. Strange how the sorcerous little creature had slipped his mind in the rush of complications that had filled his thoughts since morning. Odd, too, that she should have called on this particular day, that was to be marked with a huge interrogation point in Dean's career. Was Viola Gray, with her pretty face and her clashing subtleties, a puppet in the screaming mummery centreing about Martin Lamont’s deathbed confession? He shook his head doubtfully, and then something drew his gaze to the wall over his writing desk. Until this moment he had been too preoccupied to notice that a square of white paper, -with pencil tracings in the centre, was pinned to the wall. He was certain that the paper had not been there when he left for the city. He stepped closer, muttered an exclamation. The tracing dissolved into a crude print. A name was written there. He spelled It out slowly, in a hushed breath: (To be Continued Tomorrow.)