The Room Under the Stairs

Sun (Auckland), Volume III, Issue 850, 19 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 XI. Crossing the floor, he picked up the knife, contemplated the vicious implement for a moment, then flung it into a drawer. His mind was at work on a Plan for dealing with the thwarted assassin. “Guess what I am going to do with you?** he asked . grimly. “Turn me over to the bulls, I 8 Pose/* said the man stolidly, his crafty little eyes watching Dean's every move. “Oh, no!** Dean smiled, a thin, cruel smile that was designed to impress the other man. “You aren’t going to escape quite so easily. You’d probably jump bail or get out some* other "ay, and in a day or two you would be back here trying to stick a knife into me. No, I know of a more effective way of dealing with a rat like you.** He studied the man askance as he B Pokc. An uneasy look appeared in the hard, glassy eyes; a drooping of ? be lips disturbed the stolid expression that had sat on his face. Dean, knowing that he had appraised his man correctly at the first glance, dangled the pistol in an apparently aimless way. “I have about as much use for a man of your type as I have for a snake.’* he went on contemptuously.“l don’t know why I shouldn’t deal with you accordingly.” “Instead of taking your chances like * man. you go about your cowardly w °rk like a coyote. Now I’m going to kill you. It will be a good night's work.’’ His words had the desired effect. True to his type, the other man had "oakened the moment he saw' his advantage torn from him. His sallow face twitched nervously, and fear showed in his eyes. “Tell you what I’ll do,’* said Dean, h»s loathing growing stronger every moment. “I’m going to kill you, but first I’ll give you a chance for your ‘ife. That’s more than you. granted me. Stand up and fight. But remember that if I win. I’ll choke you to death with these hands.” He flung the pistol behind the bed stretched out his arms, giving the

other man an exhibition of brawny lines and rippling muscles. Dean flexed his limbs tentatively as he approached the chair where the other sat.

“If you are a man, get up anil fight," he said scornfully. “If not —" But the other man only shrank farther back in the chair. Already he was trembling violently, and his lips twitched at the corners. Yet Dean knew that he would take instant advantage of the slightest slip on his part. For the present, though, his show of contemptuous rage and magnificent strength had cowed him thoroughly. “Look here,” he whined. “What’s the use gettin’ rough? If you’ll let me go ”

Dean’s scornful laugh interrupted him. “Thought so! Like the coward you are, you wilt at the first sign of fight. You are brave enough when vou sneak in on a sleeping man to murder him, but it’s different now. Got anything to say before 1 kill you?" A jumble of whines and whimperings was the other's only response. “Stop that!” cried Dean disgustedly after he had listended a few moments. “No more of that sickening drivel. There’s just one thing that might induce me to spare your rotten life, aud that’s the truth.” He regarded the fear-sticken man narrowly. “What’s your name?” “Mills—Freddie Mills.” “Mills, eh? Well, that name will do as well as any other. T suppose vou have quite a collection of aliases. Tell me. Mills,” and Dean made an apparently playful gesture with the pistol, “who sent you here to kill me?” “Nobody sent me.”

“That’s a lie.” The pistol rose a little higher in Dean's hand. “I can see that you have a practical turn of mind. Mills. You don't go around killing people just for the fun of it, and you have no grievance against me. Who is paying you for the job?” Mills regarded him sullenly, apparentlv weighing the respective advantages of truth and mendacity. "How should I know?" he said witlf surly emphasis.

Dean considered, concluding that Mills was probably telling the truth. In accordance with the habits of the underworld, he had probably contracted for the murder through an intermediary. Likely as not, even the intermediary was not known to Mills personally. The professional murderers of the underworld rarely came face to face with their employers. Knowing this, Dean thought it quite probable that Mills was in ignorance concerning the instigator of the crime. “Well, we'll drop that for the present,” he said. “How much were you to he paid for this heroic deed?” “ A grand,” said the thug, after brief hesitation. “A thousand, eh?” mused Dean, familiar with the slang of criminals. “Not bad for a few hours’ work. Somebody must be playing for high stakes. Didn’t know my life was worth that much. How were you approached with reference to the job?” “Somebody telephoned me to meet him at a certain place. Don’t know the guy’s name; never laid eyes on him before. He just told me what he wanted done and how much was In it, and I took the job.” “Snappy and businesslike,” commented Dean. “I suppose this anonymous individual instructed you to get on my trail and murder me at the first favourable moment?” “That was the idea!” “How and when were you to he paid?” “The guy what hired me said he'd mail me a thousaud-doilar bill as soon's I tipped him off the job was done, lie didn’t want to run the risk of bein’ seen in my company more’u was necessary.” “Can’t say I blame him. You had no fear that your employer would conveniently forget the money after you had done the work?” “I had to take a chance, didn’t I?” Dean nodded. This, too, was in accord with the ways of the underworld, with its curious code of honour and its elaborate precautions. “Well, Mills,” he remarked, “I suppose somebody is waiting anxiously for news from you. How is your employer to learn that you have carried out your part of the bargain? Through

the newspapers announcing my untimely and regrettable demise?” “I was to tip the guy off as soon as the job was done,” said Mills, evidently rendered communicative by the implied promise of immunity.

“I see. He didn’t want to remain in suspense longer than necessary. He was anxious to report to the man higher up. But since you say he has a pronounced aversion to being seen in your company. I don’t see how you were to tip him off. A letter takes several hours, and my mysterious enemy would wear out considerable shoe leather in the meantime. Besides, one doesn't like to allude to such things in a letter." “Nix on the letter business. I was to tip the guy off by phone.” “Ah! A telephone message travels faster than a letter—-but it is almost as dangerous. Central or somebody might listen in on the wire. Better tell me the truth, Mills.” Dean toyed impressively with the pistol. “I’m givin’ you the straight goods,” whined Mills. “One small word goes a long way over the wire.” “Oh, I see. The cheerful news is io be slipped to your employer in code. Admirable precaution, Mills. What the code word is makes little difference, but I’m curious to hear it.” The thug, overcoming some of his nervousness, grinned. THE SCAR AGAIN “It’s a queer one, but I s'pose one word is as good as another. It’s ‘scar.’ ” “Scar!” echoed Dean, his eyes widening. Then he laughed shortly. He knew now that Mills, governed by the wholesome influence of fear for his life, had told him the truth. The instigator of the crime had selected the one word that was uppermost in his mind, the word that had figured so prominently in the mystery arising from Lamont’s confession. Dean gave a little start as a suspicion, which had flickered dimly in his mind since Mills's appearance, took definite form. Somewhere there must be a connecting link between the mystery of the room under the stairs and the frustrated murder plot. Why else should the instigator have chanced upon this particular word? “It's as good a word as any,” he remarked, remembering how Mills's fingers had worried along his throat just before he brought the knife Into play. “But you tell me you don’t know your employer's name or anything about him. How are you going to reach him, by telephone?” "Aw, that's easy. The message will be relayed from a joint on Bleecker Street.”

“I see.” Dean nodded. Once more the cunning hand of the underworld

was exhibiting itself. “As I understand your agreement with your employer, you were to go to a telephone immediately after murdering me and, calling the number of the joint on Bleecker Street, speak the one word ‘scar’ in the transmitter. Is that correct?” “That’s God’s truth.”

Dean reflected. “To test your veracity still further,” he went on, “I want you to give me the telephone number of that joint on Bleecker Street. You have memorised it, of course?” After a brief hesitation and a glance at Dean's menacing pistol, Mills gave the number.

Dean smothered a smile with his palm. Then, in another instant, his face hardened. He peered at the thug narrowly, with an expression that was all the more disquieting because of its inscrutability. Mills shifted uneasily beneath the steady, ominous gaze.

“Say,” he blurted out, “why do you look at me that way? You don’t mean to —?” He stopped, shivered, moistened his lips, and stared in unwilling fascination into Dean’s eyes, as if trying to fathom the nameless something he saw there. Dean said nothing, but his smile took on a chill tinge.

The thug’s terror was growing apace. “You —you aren't goin’ to pull any rough stuff after I’ve come clean,” he stammered shakily.

“You gave me your word to let me off if I spilled the straight goods. You —you promised—” “Stop it, Mills,” said Dean quietly. “A promise made to one of your kind isn't binding. I think you have told me the truth, but what to do with you is still au open question. It depends to a great extent od whether you are willing to do me a small service.”

“Spill it!” said the thug, gulping down his anguish. Dean got up and, watching the man over his shoulder, stepped to the door and opened it. He listened for a moment, thankful that Mrs. Blossom was a sound sleeper. “Come this way,” he said gruffly, seizing the fellow by the neck and leading him through the door. Limp and trembling, Mills followed him to the workshop on the lower floor. Its heavy doors and substantial walls had been designed with a view to shutting out all stray noises. Dean locked the door, then shoved his captive into a chair, and pushed the telephone in front of him.

“I’m giving you one more chance for your life, Mills. If you try any tricks, you will never leave this room alive. Here's the telephone. I want you to

call up the joint on Bleecker Street ! and say ‘scar.’ ” A -whimper fell from Mills s lips. He looked up into Dean's threatening face, swallowed a few times, and with an air of abject submission removed the receiver. “Remember —no tricks,” said Dean quietly. He stood at the thug's back, pressing the muzzle of the pistol gently but significantly against bis neck. With a fresh shiver. Mills brought the receiver to his ear. A sleepy voice in a distant exchange inquired what number was wanted. Then came a long delay, finally broken by a chesty “Hello” in a masculine voice. Leaning over the sitting mau. Dean could hear it rising clearly over the myriad I whispers on the wire. He increased | the pressure of the pistol against | Mills's neck. "Careful!” he whispered.

I transmitter, and spoke the one word: “Scar.” THE TEST. “It's a corker! I'll tell the world it is! Sounds just like a chapter from one of your novels, Dean.” Lieutenant Shane sptead out his long legs and looked somewhat like Mills drew a long breath, hunched forward a little, put his lips to the

a disillusioned youngster who refuses to swallow the tale of the fairy queen and the ogre. They were sitting in an office at police headquarters, and Dean had just told the story of his encounter with Freddie Mills the preceding night. He had risen early, breakfasted iu a hurry, and travelled into the city \ in a taxicab, for it had seemed the part of discretion to avoid the use ot i a public conveyance. He was anxious to see what construction the astuto lieutenant would put on his adventure with the thug, and to gain a hint as to how he might best pursue the advantage he had gained. “Well, you know, truth is stranger than fiction.” he tritely pointed out. speaking almost gayly. for the events of the night had left him iu a mood of exultation that refused to be dampened by Shane's apparent scepticism. (To be Continued Tomorrow.)