A WITNESS FROM THE DEAD
A long night because of long, long thoughts, then a few hours of
sleep and then waking, to see the sun shining through her window.
Margot wondered, as she examined her face in the two foot mirror, just
how many more sleepless nights she could stand without showing the
effects of it. Well, at least she didn’t have to rush over to the
studio and be irritated by Stoner. It was a shame of course, that she
was the cause of Gene being fired, for Stoner would undoubtedly put as
many spokes in Gene’s wheel as possible. But he already had the
reputation of being a clever camera man, and he’d make another good
connection in spite of Stoner.
As to herself, Margot worried not at all. She was sorry to leave the
charming “Conchita” to the mercy of some substitute who might not
understand her passionate Latin temperament as well as
she--Margot--understood it, but, oh, what did it all matter! The
reflection of herself as a passionate Spanish girl made Margot grin in
delighted mockery of her own conception. Of course--she had no doubt
about it--she was quite capable of feeling intensely when the right
man and the right hour should come along, but Spanish girls didn’t
have to have the scene so carefully laid. Was it that American women
were really cold, or that Spanish women were less fastidious? As to
dear old Gene, was he the right one, and was she waiting only for the
hour to strike?
She had reached that point in her reflections, over her coffee and
rolls, in her room, when she was called to the telephone.
As she heard Gene’s voice over the wire, she wondered if it were a
case of thought transference. That very moment as he was calling her,
she was thinking intently about him.
“Hello, that you, Margot? Say, there’s the devil to pay out here. I’m
calling from Astoria. I’ve been given the sack and not a reason
offered. And the report out here is that you’ve had the same dirty
deal. Is it true?”
She told him it was, and asked him to come to her house as soon as
possible; that she had much to tell him, and something for him to do.
His voice sounded more cheerful when he told her that he’d be right
over as quick as he could make train connections.
When Gene arrived she gave him both hands and reached her face up for
his kiss. He gave it eagerly enough, his eyes glowing with joy at the
sight and touch of her. He tried to take her in his arms, but she held
him back and smiled an entreaty that he be patient with her.
“We’ve such a lot to talk about, dear, and so much to do. I promise,
Gene, that just as soon as we clear up the mystery of that old room of
mine, I’ll take your love-making seriously, or else--” She hesitated,
striving to be fair and honest with him.
“Or else you’ll cut out the love-making altogether, is that it,
Margot?”
“Yes, old dear, that’s what I meant, but don’t get humped about it.
Plenty of other bridges to cross first. Who knows, I may discover that
I’m desperately in love with you, when I get all the débris out of my
mind collected there in the last few days.”
Her mood was lightening. Gene always cheered her up. Good sign, she
thought, but she refrained from calling his attention to it. Then she
told him of Stoner’s unexpected call the previous evening. Before she
could expatiate on his avowed reason for coming, Gene exploded.
“So _that_ was his game, keeping me at work in the studio, and
changing me to another unit! I thought it was queer, but I was too
dense to connect it with you, Margot.”
“No denser than I was. It never occurred to me till after he’d gone.
As a matter of fact, he kept my brain too busy with his remarkable
theories, until just before he left, and _then_ he kept _me_ too
busy.”
Gene stared at her, uncomprehending. She laughed at his expression,
then she frowned, remembering with an access of disgust, Stoner’s
physical attempt to force her hand.
“See here, Gene, if he hadn’t fired you I’d not dream of telling you
just what happened last night. But as you’re no longer under his heel
it doesn’t matter _what_ you know. I’ll tell you about my personal
encounter with him first. That’ll clear the deck for the rest of it,
which is really the only interesting thing about last evening.”
She described Stoner’s attack upon her, his love-making, and his cold
fury when she struck him across the mouth. Gene listened with burning
eyes and twitching lips, striding up and down the room as Margot
talked.
“So that’s that, and a jolly good riddance so far as I’m concerned. I
was getting awfully fed-up with his overbearing ways. Until recently
I didn’t dislike Stoner. Of course I could never have been fond of
him, but I liked him--rather--until he antagonized me by his attitude
regarding what occurred, and publicity, and all that. He’s interesting
in a queer, mysterious way. He’s got me guessing as to his real
motives for working up his elaborate theory and coming here with it.
There’s _something_ I can’t reach with my mind, although my
imagination plays with it continually.”
She described to Gene the visit to the “haunted” room, and Stoner’s
antics, which filled the policeman with wondering awe, and made Margot
want to laugh, up to the moment when he explained his theory.
“And the funny thing about it is that on the surface it sounds
reasonable, and it makes you wonder why you hadn’t thought of it
yourself.”
“I suppose,” said Gene thoughtfully, “that such a light _could_ be
sent into a dark room, through an uncurtained window. But it seems to
me that unless you’d lost your wits completely, you’d have known the
difference between a small circular dancing light, and the tiny upward
flare of a lighted match.”
“Of course I would,” she agreed eagerly. “And as to my hand and arm,
really, you know, I’d have to have been utterly mad not to have known
the difference between the shadow of an arm and hand, and the real
thing crawling over the rug.”
“As a matter of fact, it’s all bunk, that idea of a calcium light and
a burning glass being manipulated so as to throw the shadow of your
arm on to the floor.” Gene’s literal type of mind was more inclined to
eliminate the impossible than to consider the possible.
“All the same, there are moments when I wonder a little if it’s not
stupid of me to take such a negative attitude. After all, Gene, mighty
strange things happen, and they’re only strange to those who can’t
understand. I don’t know--I’m not dead sure--that a light couldn’t be
thrown just as he described, and work the same odd tricks. If I were
as sure of Stoner himself as I am of my limited knowledge along such
lines, I’d be inclined to accept his theory, at least to prove or
disprove it, with an open mind.”
“You mean that you think he had a hidden motive for propounding his
theory?”
“Yes, and besides, he admitted to having given me his theory,
expecting that it would clear up the mystery and cause me to drop
further investigation, or words to that effect. Now, what puzzles me
is whether he wants me to drop the whole thing because of the
publicity, or whether he’s using that reason as a screen to his real
one.”
“Good Lord! You make him out a man of mystery with a subtle brain.
That’s far-fetched, dear girl. He’s the most obvious person I know. He
probably concocted that ingenious theory with the hope of convincing
you and making you drop the whole thing, but I’ll bet a good deal that
he’s incapable of anything more intricate or sinister than that.”
“May--be!” Margot puckered her forehead, and her eyes had a far-seeing
expression in their gray depths.
“Well, let’s drop that man for five minutes, him and his theories.”
Gene sat down with an impatient sigh, and lighted a cigarette with
nervous fingers. “I think it’s about time you gave me the benefit of
your own theories, Margot. I’d be grateful to you if you’d give me
something to think about besides Stoner and his damn nerve coming here
and trying to make love to you. Nice picture before me of his kissing
you against your will!”
Margot’s sudden laugh brought an angry light to Gene’s somber eyes.
She leaned toward him and put her hand over his with a little pressure
of her fingers, and a smile that strove to express contrition, and
failed.
“Silly old thing! Where’s your logic, even if you’ve mislaid your
sense of humor. If he’d kissed me _not_ against my will, then you
_would_ have something to groan over. And it’s darn lucky for you,
little one, that you make it _very_ clear that you believe it _was_
against my will, for if you didn’t, you know what would happen, don’t
you, Gene?”
“I believe you,” he said sullenly, “but if Stoner and I had to meet
very often, with you between, something would break sooner or later.”
“Well, don’t worry. I’m through with Stoner, and so are you. Now, as
to my theories. I’ve got something first I want you to do for me. If
you can spare the time I want you to go personally to police
headquarters, and make arrangements for Hart and his crowd to meet
here at five o’clock. Hart hasn’t been here himself for some time. He
scorns the case. But you argue that brilliant sleuth into coming.
Flatter, cajole him. Tell him I want to call his attention to
important new evidence. Make positively sure that he’ll be here
himself!”
“You’ve actually got something up your sleeve?”
“If my powers of deduction haven’t failed me--yes.”
“All right. I’ll have Hart here if I have to blackjack him and hire a
wheelbarrow. And right now, I’m off to look for another job.” He rose
and went toward her, holding out his hands.
“Oh, Gene, listen.” She was on her feet beside him. “Have you enough
to rub along on for a short time?”
“Sure I have, but I don’t want to give Stoner the satisfaction of
thinking I can’t land another job as good as or better than the one he
dished me out of, hot off the reel.”
“Oh, bother Stoner or what he thinks. In the first place, Gene, I may
need every bit of your time in the next few days, and secondly I’ve
got a sort of feeling that you’d better hold off about another job.
It’s just one of my queer hunches, but if you don’t mind very much,
and if you can rub along for a while, I do wish you would--dear.”
When she said “dear” with precisely that intonation, he would have
agreed to commit murder, and he told her so.
Margot spent the intervening hours writing letters and getting mental
relaxation in a moving picture house. Nothing, she had found, was
quite to be compared with the average movie for complete lulling of
all the senses, not to mention the brain.
At a quarter to five Gene came to her room and told her with boyish
glee that he had corralled Hart and the others, and brought them to
the house in a taxi. They had even stopped at the station house of the
district to pick up Quinlan and Boyle. They were all downstairs in her
old room, waiting for her.
Eager and impulsive, Margot flew to Gene, threw her arms around his
neck and gave him a little hug and a quick kiss on his mouth. No use
to hold her, and prolong the kiss. Like a firefly she was off and
away, running down the stairs while Gene caught his breath and darted
after her.
Hart stood by the mantelpiece, a sarcastic grin and a stiff bow, his
greeting to Margot.
“Understand you’ve got something for us that we weren’t bright enough
to find for ourselves, Miss Anstruther.”
“I believe I have, Mr. Hart.” Her smile was as sweet as her low voice.
“But I’m wondering if you’ll take orders or even suggestions from a
mere woman.” Her sarcasm was on a par with his, so could not fail to
reach him.
“You mean you’re going to ask us to do certain things?”
“Well--yes,” she said meditatively, “I rather think I am, if you don’t
mind.”
“Anything in reason.”
“There are places I want you to examine.”
“Places we haven’t already searched?”
“Yes. You’ll have to get a crowbar.”
“We shouldn’t wreck this woman’s house, Miss Anstruther.”
“It won’t be necessary,” she said quietly.
Hart’s scorn became more obvious, but he sent one of his men to borrow
the implement at a nearby hardware shop. Then Margot, who had remained
silent while the man was out getting the crowbar, pointed to the brass
bed.
“Please move that aside and turn back the rug. I don’t think you’ll be
disappointed, Mr. Hart.”
“Trapdoor, eh,” Hart muttered. “That your idea?”
“Go ahead and look,” she said quickly.
Hart made no move toward the bed. He stood looking at Margot with
shrewd, quizzical eyes. Then he said:
“You had a man up here last night, I understand, taking measurements
and giving the place an inspection.”
“Yes.” Margot’s monosyllable was spoken with a friendly inflection.
“Private detective?”
“Oh, dear no!” She could not suppress a smile at thought of Stoner in
the rôle of private detective.
“What’s the joke?” Hart neither looked nor spoke as if he considered
it one.
“No joke at all, Mr. Hart.” She became suddenly very grave. “Merely a
casual visitor who had heard what happened to me and wanted to look
over the ground himself. Just curiosity.”
“My man who was here last night, said that your friend did certain
things and made comments that sounded as if he had some theory about
your ghost. Was it your friend who suggested the trapdoor?”
“No. He did have a theory, but it followed very different lines.”
“Well, give us his theory. I’d like to hear it,” Hart spoke a little
brusquely.
“It’s an entirely personal matter, Mr. Hart, and in my opinion doesn’t
bear on this case at all. At any rate, I’m conceited enough to prefer
my own theory. If nothing comes of it, then we can look into the one
advanced by my caller last night.”
Hart gave her a long, speculative look, then, without another word, he
told two of his men to push back the brass bed.
The men pulled out the rug which covered the drab old carpet that
extended to the wall on both sides. Then they ripped at the carpet
where it was tacked down around the edges. In a few minutes they had
bared the planking. A thick layer of dust covered the floor, yet even
through the dust, dark stains were visible. Clearly defined as well,
was a square outline some two feet each way, near the wall where the
head of the bed had been.
Hart turned abruptly to Margot.
“Have you known about this all along?”
“No, I haven’t. I merely reached the conclusion that some such thing
must be there.” Her steady look at him seemed to say that such a
conclusion was too simple and obvious to have evaded any mind trained
to such analysis.
Hart went down on his knees and began to prod with his fingertips.
“Seems to be stuffed with some kind of wadding. Looks as if it hadn’t
been touched for months.” Hart spoke without looking up. He was intent
on the discovery they had made.
“Suppose you open it,” Margot suggested quietly.
An atmosphere of mystery amounting to horror pervaded the room. Gene
stared from Hart on his knees, to Margot standing erect and watchful.
Quinlan and Boyle frowned fiercely and strove to preserve a stoicism
which made Margot want to laugh, even though she trembled with
excitement. Eager to a point where it was difficult to restrain her
mad desire to find what lay under all that dust and wadding or
whatever it was, nevertheless she felt a cold, shuddering dread of
what they might discover.
Hart rose to his feet and asked for the crowbar. With the help of one
of his men he drove it down into a crack. They heaved and wrenched,
then with so little final effort that it seemed as if mystery and
horror laughed and mocked their struggles with the crowbar, a trapdoor
lifted and fell over on the floor; an indubitable trapdoor it was.
For once, Hart lost his superior air of composure. He spoke quickly,
with excited gasps.
“There’s a big compartment here. Looks as if it’s hollowed from the
central stone support of the house.”
Margot was on her knees beside him, and Gene was standing over her.
“Look and see what’s in it,” she commanded.
Hart reached into the hole and drew out a fire ax, such as hangs
beside a bucket of water in the hallways of public buildings.
“There’s that,” he muttered, holding the ax up for inspection.
He reached again into the hole, probed eagerly, then gave a sudden cry
of surprise and loathing. He drew his hand out with a desperate jerk
and dropped a horrifying object on the floor. Margot suppressed a
scream, and Boyle didn’t. His cry was almost a wail as if he had seen
the Banshee in his own country. Gene bent swiftly and drew Margot to
her feet, holding her against him. No one looked at anyone else. There
was something else to look at.
On the floor, where Hart had dropped it, was the severed and withered
arm of a woman. A desiccated, mummy-like arm. The hand was tightly
clenched. On the upper side it was marred from wrist to knuckles by a
huge burn resembling a chocolate-colored birthmark.
No one spoke, no one stirred, no one removed his gaze from the object
on the floor--a gaze of horror and utter confusion of thought and
emotion. Margot shuddered and pressed closer to Gene. Then she
whispered to him. The power of reasoning had returned with a flash of
insight. The silence of the room was broken by a low, agonized moan.
“God have mercy on us all!” It was Shane Boyle, down on his knees in
an attitude of prayerful supplication. “Sure, it’s the ghost of this
arm we’ve been seein’.”
“The arm it is, I say, of Stella Ball.” Strange that it should have
been the material-minded, slow-witted Quinlan who spoke.