The Room Under the Stairs

Sun (Auckland), Volume III, Issue 860, 2 January 1930, 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 XXI. Only a few hours later the lieutenant had paid a flying visit to Top o’ the Hill, finding the garage empty. This, in the natural order of things, should have confirmed his suspicion that the novelist had been fabricating a story out of whole cloth. Yet Shane was loath to jump at conclusions. He and Dean had been friends a long time. And it was just possible that the thug had managed to escape. Guided by the beam from his flashlight, he entered the sitting room, dreary and musty smelling and full of ancient scents. There was a dead stillness in the room, except when the old timbers shook before a blast of wind. The furniture looked uncomfortable enough to he genuine antique. On the mantel shelf were a row of candles, red and green, with little ridges of drip along the surface. Possibly Dean had lighted them the night he found the two pieces of glass. The lieutenant scanned the cracks in the floor as if expecting to find additional fragments. His forehead wrinkled in petulant bewilderment. Dean and his pesky pieces of glass could go hang. What did they amount to, anyway? Why, nothing at all! Yet the moment Dean told about his find Shane had felt one of his familiar hunches impinging upon his well-ordered mind. It was ridiculous, and yet He raised his flashlight a little i higher, until the little white gleam caught one of the candles on the mantel. It was a green one, and he would scarcely have singled it out for special attention except that he noticed it had burned a little lower than the others, being fully an inch shorter than its companions. He i regarded it with an intent, narrowing eye. Yo reason, as far as he could see, why that candle should have burned down faster than the others. Instinctively his mind fastened on the trivial circumstance. He touched the formation of drip. * ]t was warm and pliant, suggesting that the candle had been burning within ’the last hour. Shane looked about him in the light of his electric flash. Nowhere could he see the slightest sigu of a recent intrusion, yet the little green candle gave ample evidence that there had been a trespasser ill the room not long ago. His mind instantly turned to Dean, registering still another item of questionable conduct on the novelist’s part. , . After another long glance the candle, he slowly walked away fiom the room, reflecting that Dean, if inI deed he had visited the old house, had probably departed by this time. Something made him turn toward the hall and the room under the stairs. He proceeded quietly, making no unnecessary sounds, one half of his mind still ; occupied w ith the conclusion he had drawn from the green candle. f-very- ‘ where were creeping, gnawing noises, as if the shadows were grumbling at being disturbed by the flashlight. Even a man of Shane’s unimaginative mould of mind felt a gently tingling sensation as he approached the little l room whose ghastly contents had been ] so recently removed. \t the door he paused and stood 1 listening Into his face came an alert curious look. He smiled rather grimly, flung the door open, then stood ; blinking in amaze at the sight he i saw. ._ , . i The trespasser was liOx Dean, but a woman —a flapperish young thing, as Shane would have described her 1 His quick eye registered a pair of 1 great, startled amber eyes, a flashing ! mass’of flaxen curls beneath a yauuty little toque, uptilted nose and gaping 1 jins a highly utilitarian raincoat, with a glimpse of knickerbockers unI derneath, all revealed in the l'-ght oi a candle, this time a red one. socketed i in an empty ink bottle. ! “Oh, how you startled me. she | ° a -Sorry,” muttered Shane dryly,

drawing closer for a better inspection. “Looking for something?” She did not answer, and he glanced over her slight shoulders at the conrusion of odds and ends in the room, as if trying to find the answer to his question. There was nothing that gave the slighest clue to her presence, nothing but the same dusty and hopeless accumulation of scraps that Shane had already gone carefully over. “Suppose you give an account of yourself,” he suggested with official brusqueness. The woman—she seemed more mature and less flapperish on closer inspection, despite her shy airs and hoydenish attire was evidently searching her mind for a convenient subterfuge. “You are an officer, I suppose?” she ventured. “Lieutenant Shane is my name.*’ “Oh, yes,” brightening. “I’ve seen your name in the papers. You have been investigating the Lamont case. I know you are tremendously clever. It must be great to be a famous detective. There’s nothing I’d rather be—except, possibly, a writer. Do you know Thomas Dean? I just adore him! ” It was an odd time and place for a discussion of literary values, but Shane could not repress a smile. Her naivete, even If partly assumed, as he strongly suspected, had about it a sort of infectious drollery. Besides, he had already reconciled himself to the prospect of a profitless night. “Yes, I know, Dean,” he declared. “Great imagination he has. Never had the pleasure of meeting you before, though.” “I am Viola Gray,” she announced simply, as if that explained everything. Shane searched his memory, but there was no Viola Gray registered there. His broad, freckled face was an arena of warring expressions. Suddenly he asked: “Did Dean send you here?” “Mercy, no!” “The doors were locked.” She smiled tantalisingly. "Hairpin, I suppose?” he said dryly. “Ive been told a woman can open almost anything with a hairpin.” She tossed her head, shaking her flaxen curls by way of emphasising their independence of such implements. “I suppose you smashed a window, then?” “I found one that didn’t need smashing. All I had to do was to take out a piece of broken glass, stick my hand through the opening, and loosen the fasteners. Simple!” Shane nodded. She seemed full of unsuspected capabilities. It would be a shame to disturb her blithe innocence by reminding her that there were laws against housebreaking. “What a delightfully spooky old place!” she exclaimed, with an enraptured glance about the walls, thus forestalling further questions. “That’s what Dean thought when I showed it to him. Queer place for a lady to he prowling around in, this time of night. What were you looking for?” "Nothing in particular. You can never tell what you may expect to find in a room like this. Scraps of paper, for instance.” “Paper? Is that what you have been looking for?” "Oh. no! I’ve just kept my eyes open for anything that might prove interesting. Talking about old scraps of paper, I found one this morning that ” She came to a mysterious pause. “By the way, do tell me what you think of Lamont’s confession.” "I think it speaks for itself,” said Shane, deciding to humour her whims a little longer. “You actually believe Lamont killed a man named Paul Forrester in this house five and a-half years ago?” “Not a doubt of it.” "It was on the night of the 16th of November, wasn’t it?”

Shane nodded. Through careful perusal of the confession, the date was well fixed in his mind. “I can imagine what kind of night it was,” she confided. “Raw, blustery, with lots and lots of clouds, and maybe a little snow on the ground. Doesn’t November seem the ideal month for murders, just as June is the ideal month for brides?” The inverted comparison made him smile. “Are you sure it was the 16th of November?” she asked abruptly, with a little thrill in her voice that belied the apparent casualness of the question. “Lamont didn’t seem to be in any doubt about the date. He remembered it particularly because it was the day after his birthday. But I don’t believe he would have forgotten it, anyhow.” “No, I suppose not. If I ever committed a murder, I should look back upon the day when it happened with the awfulest shudders.” She demonstrated the assertion with a shiver. “Are you familiar with Lamont’s handwriting?” “I couldn’t mistake it,” said Shane with conviction. “Then just look at this.” She picked up her hag, extracted from it a folded piece of paper and handed it to him. A LETTER “Lamont’s handwriting,” muttered Shane as he glanced at the contents. The paper was of cheap quality and slightly faded from age. He began to read: Dear Jimmy—Your letter received. Am starting tomorrow for Butte to take up the matter with the Amalgamated people. If they won’t listen to arguments, we will find a way to convince them that “You needn’t read any further,” interrupted Miss GrajV “The letter itself Isn’t of any consequence. The only things that matter are the handwriting and the date. Look at-the date.” Shane’s narrowing gaze moved to the top of the sheet. “Leadville, Col., November 15, 1917,” he muttered, then glanced curiously at the girl. She was again fumbling in her bag. “Here is the envelope,” handing it to him, her hand trembling a little. “You will find that the postmark agrees with the date of the letter.” Shane examined it with a gathering scowl of perplexity on his forehead. “Where did you find this letter?” he demanded, almost gruffly. “Here?” “No. I found it—somewhere else. It doesn’t matter, does It? What X don’t see is how Lamont could be in Leadville on the 15th of November and commit a murder in New York the next day. Do you?” “It’s a bit thick,” Shane admitted, again scanning the letter. “And he says he was starting the next day for Butte. There must be a mistake somewhere.” “I am sure there is.”

Shane’s eyes left the letter and slanted downward to a point on the floor. “There’s no mistake about what we found there,” he added significantly. “Dean turned sick from just one look at it. And the fire tongs and the inonogrammed watch? I don’t see how Who’s this Jimmie the letter is written to?” “Does that matter?” “It might’. If he is still living ” “He isn’t,” interrupted the girl tensely. “Oh,” giving her a sardonic glance. “Been going through a dead man’s papers, eh? Well, j'ou certainly turned up something interesting. It’s a great little mix-up—what with scars and pieces of glass and other things. Too bad that everybody who could have explained matters to us is dead. If Lamont had only lived a few hours longer ” “Lamont?” she echoed in a dazed horrified tone. “Lamont dead?” “Murdered about three hours ago. The morning papers will tell you all about it.” “Murdered?” she gasped, then stood rigid, a great pallor dimming the brightness of her piquant little face. Her eyes, full of dread, appeared to be fixed on some distant point, far removed from the confines of the room. For the moment she seemed to have forgotten Shane’s presence. “If Lamont is dead,” she said tonelessly, “then Littleby murdered him. I didn’t think he would ” “Who said anything about Littleby?” interrupted the lieutenant impatiently. “Littleby seems to have a perfect alibi. He and Dr. Ballinger

were talking together when the shot was fired.” “Doctor Ballinger?” She came out of her abstraction with a start. “Are you sure of that?” “Well, both of them told the officers out there that they were talking on the balcony when the shot rang out. Unless they are in cahoots and faked up an alibi ” “No,” she declared with conviction. “Doctor Ballinger wouldn’t dp such a thing. He’s an honourable man." “That’s the way I sized him up, and his word is good enough for me when he says that he and Littleby were talking on the balcony when the shot was heard. Who killed Lamont is a poser, unless,” and Lieutenant Shane smiled a grim, baffled smile, “my friend Dean had a hand in it. The Kew Garden authorities are looking for him.” “For Mr. Dean?” she exclaimed incredulously. “Was he there?” “He turned up just after the murder was discovered. Admitted he had been in the house for two hours, but couldn’t give a very satisfactory account of what he had been doing. Then he disappeared, just before the police, arrived. Can you heat that?” The girl stared at him, her face alive with indefinable fears. Sud denly she pulled herself together, adjusted her hat and started for the door. “Quick!” sue said. “We must go to Kew Gardens at once —before there’s another murder.” Shane stared at Her for a moment, shrugged his broad shoulders, then followed. “Well, I’m damned,” he muttered. CHAPTER XXII. BLACK MOMENTS Miss Lamont’s cry, quavering on a cote of fear, roused Dean from the momentary daze that had seized him when darkness rushed down upon them. “There’s no danger,” he told her, fumbling in the blackness until he found her hand. “Something’s happened to the lights—that’s all.” “Turn them on—quick, Tommie” she pleaded. “Such dreadful things always happen in this room when the lights go out like that.” It sounded mysterious, hut he asked no explanations, but picked his way to the table where an electric lamp had been burning under a soft green shade a few moments ago. A touch confirmed his suspicion, which he had refrained from communicating to the girl, that the blotting out of the lights had been a deliberate move, possibly intended to serve as a prelude to further surprises. Striking one of his few matches, he saw that the filaments in the bulb were intact, and it was the same with the light fixture on the wall. Some one had shut off the current by throwing a switch in another part of the house. The match went out. Observing that the darkness seemed to fill her with incomprehensible terrors, he struck another. “A fuse must have burned out somewhere,” he remarked as casually as he could. “Let’s sit down her and talk.” He placed a chair for her. With a long, doubting look at his face, signifying strong scepticism in regard to the burned-out fuse, she sat down beside him with a slight nestling movement of her shoulder. The second match went out, leaving an interval of darkness that seemed something more than just ordinary gloom. He felt a shiver passing through the shoulder that was lightly touching his own. ‘My last!” he groaned inwardly, as he struck another match on the bottom of his shoe. In its glow, the girl was darting quick, frightened glances to all sides, as if suspecting the presence of some invisible dan ger. It reminded him of the cryptic statement she had made just after darkness swooped down over them: Such dreadful things always happen in this room when the lights go out like that.” The words carried a hint of some terrifying experience heralded by the abrupt going out of the lights Banish old-fashioned flypapers. Spray rooms with Fly toy. Ends fly and mosquito nuisance in five minutes.—l 9.

and explained the expression ot dread with which she looked about her. The last match flickered out. He gazed fixedly at the dying shimmer of the stub, nd then an intensified darkness, with something subtly appalling, in it, rolled up over them. Her trembling shoulder moved a little closer to his in an intimacy of dread, giving him a gentle thrill. It was odd how, even in these black moments of suspense, he was capable of experiencing life's softer emotions. “How close it is!” she murmured after a while. “I can hardly breathe.” “Only imagination,” said Dean, lightly, trying to reassure her, but the remark had confirmed a disquieting impression of his own. Until five minutes ago there had been a slight current of air in the room, hinting at the presence of a concealed ventilator somewhere, perhaps high in the domed ceiling. Now this had ceased, leaving only an oppressive stillness in the stagnant air. “I hope Littleby took the hint I gave him,” he added, trying to take her mind off the present and its uncertainties. “About the pieces of glass?” “Yes, and about Lieutenant Shane trying to guess what they mean. 1 hope Littleby takes it to heart. He is a very shrewd individual, the kind that weighs his chances carefully before he acts. He may decide that murder is risky business.” He felt her hand quivering within his own. “Let’s not delude ourselves, Tommie. Littleby is a cold, conscienceless blackguard.”

“But he has a wholesome respect for his own skin.” “But don’t you see? He is determined to kill us because he thinks he will be safer as soon as we are out of the way. We might as well face the inevitable.” “And follow Littleby’s advice and meditate on the uncertainties of life? I refuse. The subject is too depressing. Anyhow, as long as there is life there is hope. If Littleby means to sneak in on us through one of his secret^passages, and attack us in the dark, he'll have a fight on his hands. I have been still so long that I feel the need of a bit of healthful exercise.” "Oh, but he wouldn’t attempt anything so crude as that. Littleby fights with subtle weapons, and he never takes unnecessary chances. I know.” “I wonder how much you know, Lee ?” "A lot, but not everything. Please don’t ask me. I couldn’t explain. I could tell you of many strange things that have happened since I came here, but my head begins to swim whenever I try to reason out what it all means.” “Then don't try. Just tell me what has happened,” he persisted, thinking it better that her thoughts should be occupied with the past than with the unknown terrors the next few- hours migh hold in store for her. “What delayed you on your way to New Y’ork?” “I was not delayed. I left Wichita three hours after t received the telegram announcing my father's illness. I Thirty-six hours later I arrived in

New York, and went direct to Kew Gardens, in accordance with the instructions in the telegram. It was quite late—nearly midnight. Mr. Littleby himself let me in, and I inquired immediately about father. “He answered evasively, though it didn’t strike me that way at once, saying that father was under the influence of opiates, and that the physician had left positive orders that he should not be disturbed. Then, remarking that the servants had retired, he offered to show me to my room. I suspected nothing until I found myself a prisoner in this very room.” (To be continued tomorrow)