THE DEAD MAN
This revealment of conditions left me thoroughly puzzled. I was not
frightened at the situation, for I largely attributed the fear shown by
both Pete and Sallie to negro superstition. I could have dismissed
their faith in a haunted house with a smile, and gone to sleep myself
with an easy conscience, confident that a noisy wind, or a hooting owl,
was the sum and substance of all the trouble. But Bill Coombs was a
very different proposition. He was of the hard-headed kind, not to be
easily alarmed by visionary terrors, and yet he was manifestly afraid
to sleep in the house. I was sufficiently acquainted with his type to
comprehend there must be some real cause driving him to retreat to the
negro cabins for rest. He was a rough of the Southwest, illiterate of
course, but a practical fellow, and, without doubt, a gun-fighter. He
had been employed because of these very characteristics, and it would
require surely a very real ghost to drive him away.
I sat there for some time smoking, endeavoring to think it all over
coolly, and listening intently. At first I could distinguish the
rattle of dishes downstairs, as Sallie cleared the table, and, a little
later, heard Mrs. Bernard moving about uneasily in her room across the
hall. But at last these sounds ceased, and the house became still. I
removed a portion of my clothing and lay down on the bed, a certain
uneasiness preventing me from undressing entirely. I was tired, but
with little inclination for sleep. The room was large, the furniture
of old style and well worn, the light of the small hand lamp leaving
much of the spacious apartment in shadow. It was not only imagination
which kept me wakeful, but the dim suspicion engendered in my mind by
what Mrs. Bernard had said below. Could there be any truth in her
questioning of the motives actuating the man who had sent us here? Had
we come--mere pawns in some game of crime--deceived, perhaps betrayed
to arrest? Was Coombs here merely to watch us, and report to Neale and
Vail how we carried out our part of the bargain? The affair certainly
looked altogether different now I was upon the ground, although I could
figure out no possible object those men could have. At least they
could accomplish nothing without my cooperation, and, if I discovered
any evil afoot, I could block them instantly. I was there to save this
property for the rightful heir, and was determined now to see that
Philip Henley received all that was due him. It was after one o'clock
before I fell into a drowsy sleep.
Indeed, it hardly seemed to me that I had entirely lost consciousness,
when I was jerked bolt upright by the sharp report of a firearm. For a
single instant I imagined the shot fired within my room; then I sprang
to the door, and flung it open, peering out into the hall. Everything
was still, the rays from my lamp barely extending to the head of the
stairs. I could neither see, nor hear anything, and yet I had a
strange premonition that I was not alone. There was an automatic
revolver in the pocket of my coat, and I stepped back after it, picking
up the lamp on my return, determined on a thorough examination of the
upper story. There was no doubt about the shot--the sound was no
effect of a dream. I wondered if the girl had been awakened by the
report, and paused to listen at her door, but no sound reached me from
within. The thought that she might have discharged the weapon occurred
to my mind, but was as instantly dismissed, as I was convinced she
possessed nothing of the kind.
I moved down the hall cautiously, regretting the need of a lamp, but
the place was strange, and I dare not venture about in the dark. Old
as the house was, there was no creaking of boards underfoot, and,
strain my ears as I would, not the slightest sound reached me.
The first doors I came to were ajar, but the moon was at the back of
the house, and I was obliged to enter each apartment, and flash my
light into the corners to make sure they were vacant. These were
medium-sized bedrooms, comfortably furnished, although containing
nothing new. Only one exhibited any evidence of late occupancy, being
in considerable disorder, the bed unmade, some discarded garments
strewn about the floor. I prowled about within this room for some
time, even invading the closet, but discovered nothing more suspicious
than a loaded revolver in a bureau drawer, together with some torn
letters, and an old newspaper. This was a local sheet, containing a
notice of the death of Judge Henley, which I took time to read. The
letters were in such scraps I could not even decipher the address.
One fact, however, was revealed--some man had been sleeping up here
lately, and it was not Coombs, but a much smaller Individual. This
knowledge made me even more cautious, as I tiptoed down the hall, now
narrowed by the back stairway. The first door opened into a bath-room,
the tub half full of dirty water, a mussed towel on the floor. The
last door, leading to a room apparently extending clear across the rear
of the house, was tightly closed. I set my lamp down well out of
sight, and gripped my revolver, before attempting to manipulate the
knob. It opened noiselessly; moonlight streamed through one window,
where the curtain was not closely drawn, but the gloom was too dense to
reveal much of the shrouded interior. I could dimly perceive a table,
and some chairs, one overturned. There was no movement, however; no
sign of present occupancy. Convinced as to this, I slipped back for my
lamp, shading the flame so the light was thrown forward into the room.
A single glance revealed everything. The table, a common deal affair,
contained two bottles, one half filled, and three dirty glasses,
together with a pack of disreputable-looking cards, some of these
scattered about the floor. There was no other furniture, and the walls
were bare, a dirty gray color. But what my eyes rested upon in sudden
horror, was the body of a man, curled up in a ball on the floor as a
dog lies, his face hidden in his arms. That he was dead I knew at a
glance.
I had seen violent death often, but this was different, and I shrank
back, staring at that motionless form as though stricken by paralysis.
There was no movement in the room, no sound except the fluttering of a
curtain. With effort I gained control over my nerves, and moved slowly
forward, placing my lamp on the table, so as to have both hands free.
This murder--or was it suicide?--had occurred within ten minutes. I
turned the man over, revealing a bearded face, the features prominent
but refined. He was no ordinary rough, and his clothing was of
excellent material. He had been shot in the back of the head.
It was murder then--murder! In an instant I pictured the tragedy
exactly as it must have occurred--the open window, the overturned
chair, the scattered cards, telling the whole story. Just what was the
fellow doing here alone at that hour? Why should he have been killed?
Even as I struggled with the horror, a sudden gust of wind extinguished
the lamp, and I gripped the table, staring about in the haunted
darkness. A moment and my eyes adapted themselves to the new
environment, the moonlight streaming through the open window, and
across the man's body. With heart quaking like a frightened girl, I
stole across the floor, and glanced out. A single story extension,
probably the kitchen roof, was below. Kneeling upon this the assassin
could easily fire into the room. Beyond, the pale moonshine revealed a
patch of grass, a weed-entangled garden, and behind these a dense
forest growth. To the right of the garden I could dimly distinguish a
row of small cabins, the negro quarters. Coombs would be occupying one
of these, and they were so close that, even if asleep at the time, he
could scarcely fail to hear the report of the gun in the silent night.
Yet there was no light along the row of huts, no sign of human presence.
All this was but a rapid survey, for I dare not remain there, my back
to that black interior. The body of the dead man huddled on the floor,
the unknown mystery of the dark house, filled me with an awful dread.
Seized by sudden terror I caught up the extinguished lamp, scarcely
breathing until again outside in the hallway, the door closed behind
me. Trembling in every limb I felt my way along through the darkness,
guiding myself by the wall. What could I do? What ought I to do? I
knew nothing of the house, or where to find the woman; I was not even
sure of her presence. Indeed, the very memory of her snaky eyes gave
me new horror. And Coombs! Suspecting him, as I did, it would be the
height of folly to seek him out yonder in the dark. There was nothing
left but to await daylight; to remain on watch, endeavoring alone to
formulate some plan of future action.
Accustomed as I was to danger, the situation set my pulses
throbbing--the intense blackness, the silence, the memory of that dead
face, utterly unnerving me. I imagined things--a presence in that
deserted hall through which I groped. Some unknown horror close at
hand, even a spectral passing down the stairs. I listened, clinging to
the banister-rail, feeling again helplessly for matches. Perhaps the
faint scuffling was some scurrying rat, or some puff of wind in a
chimney hole, but God only knows how glad I was to discover the open
door to my own room again. There were matches there on the table, but
my hand trembled so I struck three before the wick of the lamp caught
fire. When I ventured to look out again, holding the light so as to
see, the hall was desolate. I tiptoed across, and listened at her
door; there was no sound within.