The Room Under the Stairs

Sun (Auckland), Volume III, Issue 864, 7 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 XXVI. “That's how we happened to pick up all those strange friendships. There was Jordan Forrester, for instance —Paul Forrester’s father l —a sort of glorified rouseabout who turned his hand to all sorts of crazy things. And Martin Lamont, who once went almost dippy trying to figure out how to turn baser metals, into gold. And then there was Miss Gray's father—Silent Jim, they called him because he seldom spoke, being so busy poking into those dead silver mines in the Leadville district. It was a queer crowd, Littleby, and you and I are the only ones who are left.” Littleby’s gaze trailed off into space. “There was one yon forgot to mention,” he said casually. “Parson Bill, they called him —the strangest one in the lot.” “That’s so,” said Ballinger in an odd voice. “Well, Parson Bill is dead, too.” A strained silence fell between them. Each man looked at the other, but neither spoke a word for a long time. “I don’t think,” said Littleby at length, “that little Miss Gray will annoy us much. If she goes too far, it may be well to give her a hint to the effect that I am familiar with the history of Parson Bill. Apparently she doesn’t suspect that I am. It would be unfortunate, however, if she should be seen too much in Lieutenant Shane’s company.” The doctor nodded listlessly; apparently his thoughts were far away from the subject. “Littleby,” he said abruptly, “I am through.” The lawyer gave him a blank look. “The project was all right in the beginning,” Ballinger went on. “The scientific features of it interested me and the scheme seemed legitimate enough. Then Thomas Dean bobbed up unexpectedly, -and you lost your head, got pannicky. From that point on I couldn't follow you, but I didn't dare say anything. You had me where you wanted me. I couldn't say a word without Well, you known. Matters reached the crisis when you told me you had put Thomas Dean out of the way.” “I told you nothing of the kind." protested the lawyer. “I had received information through certain channels that Dean was dead. I did not say anything about having had a hand in it personally, and you can’t prove that l did. Anyway, a few hours after my talk with you I received information that there had been a mistake, that Dean was still alive.” “And I almost jumped out of my skin when he appeared at my office that afternoon,” grumbled the doctor. “You have gone too far, Littleby. [ won’t have anything to do with a criminal conspiracy.” Littleby sneered. “But you were willing to accept your share of the fifteen million dollars. Besides, you agreed to leave the practical details to me.” The doctor regarded him a trifle contemptuously. “I think those fifteen millions have gone to your head, Littleby. I was never particulaly interested in the money. It was the other things that attracted me. You have gone too far, and I am through. I want to be able to hold up my head and look my fellow man straight in the eye.” “Oh, I see.” The lawyer assumed a ■ different tone. “Well, get this straight. [ am not responsible for what you think. Go ahead and make as many wild guesses as you like; you can t

prove anything. And what about little Miss Gray? Would she be able to hold up her head much longer If ” “Leave her out of it,” interrupted the doctor, hotly. “If you dare say a word against her I’ll choke you to death.” “How crude! Your tactics don’t appeal to me at all. Now, let this sink in, Ballinger. If you go about voicing your silly suspicions, I shall be strongly tempted to repay you by telling the history of Parson Bill. There —I think that evens up matters.” Ballinger seemed to control himself with great difficulty. He cast another sidelong glance toward the safe in the corner. “Where is Dean?” he asked, in an altered voice. “Haven’t seen him since he walked away from us last evening.” “I don’t believe you.” “No matter. You can’t disprove what I say.” “Any news of Miss Lamont?” “No; the young lady seems to have dropped off the face of the earth.” “I think you are lying, Littleby.” “And I think you are a fool. If you are anxious about Miss Lamont’s whereabouts, why not ask Miss Gray? She seems to know a little of everything.” Ballinger’s lips tightened, as if to hold back an angry retort. His strong features seemed haggard and a little inflamed. He was the picture of a man shaken to the depths by some strange and violent emotion. “I’ve been wondering lately,” he remarked, as if trying to ease his feelings by resort to a more tranquil topic, “why you insisted on having Miss Farnliam, alias Beulah Vance, at t end to Lamont. You had some specific reason.” “Perhaps,” admitted Littleby, dryly. The doctor frowned. “The fact that Miss Farnham is Beulah Vance doesn’t seem to explain why you wanted her in particular.” “Why bother your mind with things you don’t understand? We agreed that the heavy work of planning and execution should be left to me.” “It’s strange Dean didn’t recognise her.” “Not strange at all. He saw her only for a moment, and at that particular moment his mind was occupied with other things. Miss Farnham was just a passing incident. Besides, she has changed, lost her curves and dimples. She is dumpy and stolid. Ugh!” He made a gesture of supreme disgust, but his eyes instinctively sought the ceiling as if he had just thought of something of an alarming nature. Ballinger sat with head bowed, fitfully twirling his thumbs, his eyes ' peering upward at his companion. The little reading lamp on the writing desk was heavily shaded. A streak of grey along the window sill gauged the onward march of a dreary dawn. “Littleby,” said the doctor, suddenly, “who killed Lamont?” “Why ask me? But, since you ask. isn’t Dean as good a guess as any? There will be a warrant out for his arrest shortly.” Ballinger lifted his head, giving the I other a long, searching glance. “You know as well as I do,” he said, 1 slowly, “that Dean didn’t kill Lamont. ! Where is the motive?” | “In the murder of a trapper in a lonely cabin in the God-forsaken hills of the Colorado mining district, some years ago. Dean is still sensitive about that episode. He feared Lamont had recognised him as Paul For-

rester and might live to tell what he knew.” “Rubbish!” said the doctor. “You are stating the case as you want it to appear, not as it is in reality. I have looked up the facts since we discussed the subject last night. Cabell, •the trapper, was known as a surly and ill-tempered person, always looking for a fight. As soon as the excitement died down everybody in the community was satisfied that the killing was done in self-defence. Even if the incident should be revived, Dean would never be brought to trial.” “But he doesn’t know that, so the motive still exists,” Littleby pointed out. “From Dean’s point of view, the removal of Lamont was highly desirable. Besides, doesn’t his conduct speak for itself?” “Does it?” asked Ballinger. A wan smile hovered about his sagging lips, but he fixed his companion with a gaze whose penetrating quality made Littleby stir uneasily in his chaii\ “I’ve been thinking ” “That’s deplorable. A physician can’t think except in terms of formulas and prescriptions, and that gets us nowhere in a case like this. “And I am almost sure,” the doctor doggedly went on, “that I know who killed Lamont.” “Ah! And who killed him, pray?” “You.” The quietly spoken word had a crushing sound in the surrounding stillness. Littleby laughed, but with an uneasy twang. “If that is a sample of how your mind works, you had better give it a rest. Weren’t you and 1 standing on the balcony, having a genial chat over our cigars, when the shot was .fired?” Ballinger swept the argument aside. “Oh, you arranged it very cleverly, but I know.” The lawyer’s eyes narrowed into tiny, glittering streaks. “And have you told little Miss Gray what you think you know?” Ballinger shook his head. “I wouldn’t, if I were you,” the lawyer advised. ®“Not that it would do any harm, but it is best to be discreet. Neither would I tell any one else. Miss Gray might be the one to suffer in the end.” The mocking tones produced a change in the doctor. He drew himself up; the sullen, despairing look faded from his face, leaving in its place something cold, hard and sinister. OUTWITTED “That reminds me,” he said, quietly, with a furtive motion of his right hand. “I want that little bundle of papers you keep in a brown portfolio in the safe—the documents in the case of Parson Bill. I came here to get them, and I shan’t leave without them.” A pistol gleamed in his hand, its muzzle pointing steadily at the law-

yer. In an instant.. Littleby’s face froze up; he sat rigidly motionless, staring narrowly at the menacing weapon. Moments passed, and then his face relaxed in a grin. “Next to being a good fighter,” he murmured, with a shrug, “the best trait in a man is to know when he is beaten. Your face tells me that this is no bluff. You are quite ready to drill a hole through me. You win this time, Ballinger.” He stepped to the safe, and for a few moments his lean back obscured the dial. When he turned there was a slim brown package in his hand. “Congratulations,” , he murmured, dryly. “And remember me to the charming little Miss Gray.” Ballinger glanced at the contents of the little portfolio; then backed out of the room, keeping the other man covered until he was out of sight. Littleby remained in his position until a triumphant little slam sounded at the front door. A faint, contemptuous smile touched his lips. “Poor imbecile!” he mumbled, a little fret in his tones. “I suspected months ago, when he first began to succumb to the blandishments of little Miss Gray, that Ballinger would turn yellow some day. Well, I was prepared. I’d like to see his face when he discovers that the brown portfolio contains only copies.” CHAPTER XXVII. BACK TO LIFE. Dean returned to consciousness with a confused medley of noises in his brain, and on his forehead a vaguely delicious sensation of a shy caress. His eyes fluttered open. There was a light in the room. The diabolical fumes were gone. A face was bending over him—an enraptured face, full of a queer blend of terror and tenderness. He stroked his forehead, letting his fingers linger just over the left temple, the seat of a tantalisingly remote and yet wondrously exquisite sensation. “I’m—still —alive," he observed, dazedly. “Yes, thank God!” niurmured the girl, passionately. “But for a Lime I thought you—you—” she paused on a note of shuddering dread. “But you were only stunned. My hand slipped and I—l shot you.” Dean closed his eyes.. Again his hand moved over the left side of his forehead. “Then shoot me again. But I forget. Didn’t Littleby say something about there being only one bullet’.' Blast the old skinflint for being so stingy with his ammunition. Lee?” “Yes —dear.” “Couldn’t we just pretend that you had shot me again and that you were —well, that you were doing whatever your heart moves you to do to a man after you’ve shot him.” “Be sensible,” she admonished, severely; but he reopened his eyes just in time to see a faint blush tinging her white face. “There is an ugly scratch in the back of your head, t mopped it with my handkerchief till the flow of blood stopped; but you really ought to have a doctor.” "Doctor?” Dean laughed; then sat upright, though it cost him a painful effort. “Lee, tell me everything that happened, and don’t leave out a, single thing. Remember —not a single thing.” She coloured slightly and looked aside. “Well, I heard everything Littleby told you. I could scarcely believe my ears; it sounded so outrageous. All at once an inspiration came to me. I took the pistol from the drawer, where Littleby said it would be, meaning to fire it into the ceiling. I reasoned he would hear the shot and conclude that you had obeyed his instructions.” Dean nodded as if impatient for her to reach the more important points in her recital. “I don’t know whether it was my hand or foot that slipped; but, any-

how, I knew at once that something terrible had happened. You screamed; then dropped to the floor, dragging the telephone with you, and then I think I screamed, too.” “Good,” said Dean casually. “It must have been realistic enough to fool even a shrewd old sinner like Littleby. We couldn’t have faked it as convincingly as that. What else?” “Nothing, except that soon afterward those dreadful fumes stopped, and then the light came on again.” “Go on.” “But there isn’t anything more, except that I was terribly frightened foi a while. I knew it was all my fault and ” “I can imagine that part of it—remorse, self-reproaches galore, and all that sort of thing. Lee?” “Ye-es.” “Can you look me in the eyes and say that you have told me everything?” She regarded him soberly, with just the faintest twinkle in her eyes. “There’s a pitcher of water on the table back there,” she said, matter-of-factly. “I’m going to bathe your wound.” Dean uttered a mock groan, then struggled to his feet and sat down in a chair, yielding himself to her ministrations.” “Lee,” he said, “you're an angel!” “No, nothing of the sort. Angels don’t shoot defenceless men.” “But, as it turned out, it was the best thing that could have happened, even from a crass practical point of view. ...” “I wonder,” she said soberly, “if you would have done what Littleby told you to do? I think you were capable of it, just to save me.” “Thanks, but halos are an antiquated fashion in headgear. I didn’t have anything quite so romantic in mind. You see, I had strong doubts that Littleby would fulfill his part of the bargain, even if I carried out mine. That being the case, nothing would have been gained by indulging in a bit of mock heroics. Anyhow, I thought I would try something else first.” “Yes?” she said, wondering, while with a touch light as a caress she bathed the bruised portion of his head. “Littleby said something about two ; pieces of glass,” he explained. “He ! wants them badly, but doesn't know 1

where to find them, and nobody but nyself can tell him where they are. [ thought I might dicker with him :or a while about those glass pieces—engage :in the time-honoured pursuit if stalling, in other words. But your tray was better. Let’s see that pistol.” * She picked it up from the floor and landed it to him. He examined it iravely, peeping with a frown through he now empty cartridge chambers. “No good,” he declared, tossing the weapon from him. "If Littleby should 2ome here, as I think he will. I’ll lave to go at him with my fists. It will be the most useful work they ever did. But wait—we’ll treat him to a surprise. Dead men are not supposed to move. Tell me exactly I what sort of position I was in.” “After you fell?” “When you kissed me?” Dean grinned brazenly. She gave him a scandalised glance, lut told him what he wanted to know. “That’s all arranged, then,” said j Dean, leaning back comfortably. “At irst sign of Littleby’s approach, I shall issume the highly dignified position tf a corpse. As for you, Lee, you will lave to do a bit of acting. Think you ian do it?” “I’ll try,” she said hopefully. Dean himself was not so hopeful. He had no doubt that Littleby meant :o dispose of the girl, just as he thought he had already disposed of iimself. What if, instead of appearing in the room in person, he should turn on the deadly arselene! It was a dread possibility, but his face did not betray his misgivings. Instead he busied his mind -with the likelihood that the lawyer would pay Miss Lamont a visit, possibly with a view to arranging some kind of compromise. He would probably come armed, and in that ! event it. would be best to take him by surprise, just as Dean had already planned. “You are not particularly fond of Littleby—eh, Lee?” he asked suddenly. “Certainly not!” she declared, a hard note in her voice. “You don’t mind if I muss him up a little?” “If you get too rough, I can look the other way.”

He regarded her keenly. She was smiling vaguely, but something blazed in her eyes. “Isn’t it true,” he asked, “that, no matter how rough I get with him, i ll only be repaying him in a small way for his treatment of you?” She nodded —a slight, emphatic gesture that said far more than words could. • “It wasn’t Littleby himself," site said tensely. “Littleby never did me any physical harm. He always sent someone—someone whose face I couldn’t see, for the light always went out before he entered. I scarcelv heard anything at all. I merely saw the lights go out, and then I would feel somebody’s fingers tw-ining round my throat till I almost choked. It. was dreadful, Tommie. And the strange part of it was that their sole object seemed to be to terrify me. I feel like screaming wnenever I think of that clammy touch at my throat.” “The low-down curs!” muttered Dean hotly, feeling suddenly a deeper hatred toward Littleby. “And you think their only object was to frighten you ?” “That’s the impression I got.” “But why?” She shook her head uncertainly. “They also told me of dreadful things that would happen to father if I tried to oppose them in any way. There was nothing definite in what they said; only vague threats. That's why I had to pretend to treat Littleby with respect whenever I saw him. Oh. how 1 loathe that man!” Dean scarcely heard the last. He sprang from his chair, his face aglow with grim excitement. (To be Continued Tomorrow.)