When the gentleman from America had read the last line of _The Phantom
Foot-steps_ he closed the book with a slam and, in his bitter impatience
with the impossible work, was making to hurl it across the room when,
unfortunately, his circling arm overturned the candle. The candle, of
course, went out.
“Aw, hell!” said Mr. Puce bitterly, and he thought: “Another good mark
to _Sir_ Cyril Quillier! Won’t I Sir him one some day! For only a lousy
guy with a face like a drummer’s overdraft would have bought a damfool
book like that.”
The tale of _The Phantom Foot-steps_ had annoyed him very much; but what
annoyed him even more was the candle’s extinction, for the gentleman
from America knew himself too well to bet a nickel on his chances of
remaining awake in a dark room.
He did, however, manage to keep awake for some time merely by
concentrating on wicked words: on Quillier’s face, and how its tired,
mocking expression would change for the better were his, Puce’s, foot to
be firmly pressed down on its surface: and on Julia and Geraldine. For
the luckless twins, by the almost criminal idiocy with which they were
presented, kept walking about Mr. Puce’s mind; and as he began to nod to
the demands of a healthy and tired body he could not resist wondering if
their home town had been Wigan or Bolton and if Julia’s head had been
severed from ear to ear or only half-way....
When he awoke, it was the stillness of the room that impressed his
sharply awakened senses. The room was very still.
“Who’s there!” snapped Mr. Puce. Then, really awake, laughed at himself.
“Say, what would plucky little Julia have done?” he thought, chuckling.
“Why, got up and looked!”
But the gentleman from America discovered in himself a reluctance to
move from the bed. He was very comfortable on the bed. Besides, he had
no light and could see nothing if he did move. Besides, he had heard
nothing at all, not the faintest noise. He had merely awoken rather more
sharply than usual....
Suddenly, he sat up on the bed, his back against the oak head. Something
had moved in the room. He was certain something had moved. Somewhere by
the foot of the bed.
“Aw, drop that!” laughed Mr. Puce.
His eyes peering into the darkness, Mr. Puce stretched his right hand to
the table on which stood the automatic. The gesture reminded him of
Geraldine’s when she had touched the white rabbit fur--Aw, Geraldine
nothing! Those idiotic twins kept chasing about a man’s mind. The
gentleman from America grasped the automatic firmly in his hand. His
hand felt as though it had been born grasping an automatic.
“I want to tell you,” said Mr. Puce into the darkness, “that someone is
now going to have something coming to him, her or it.”
It was quite delicious, the feeling that he was not frightened. He had
always known he was a helluva fellow. But he had never been quite
certain. Now he was certain. He was regular.
But, if anything had moved, it moved no more. Maybe, though, nothing had
moved at all, ever. Maybe it was only his half-awakened senses that had
played him a trick. He was rather sorry, if that was so. He was just
beginning to enjoy the evening.
The room was very still. The gentleman from America could only hear
himself breathing.
Something moved again, distinctly.
“What the hell!” snapped Mr. Puce.
He levelled the automatic towards the foot of the bed.
“I will now,” said Mr. Puce grimly, “shoot.”
The room was very still. The gentleman from America wished, forcibly,
that he had a light. It was no good leaving the bed without a light.
He’d only fall over the infernal thing, whatever it was. What would
plucky little Julia have done? Aw, Julia nothing! He strained his ears
to catch another movement, but he could only hear himself breathing--in
short, sharp gasps! The gentleman from America pulled himself together.
“Say, listen!” he snapped into the darkness. “I am going to count ten. I
am then going to shoot. In the meanwhile you can make up your mind
whether or not you are going to stay right here to watch the explosion.
One. Two. Three. Four....”
Then Mr. Puce interrupted himself. He had to. It was so funny. He
laughed. He heard himself laugh, and again it was quite delicious, the
feeling that he was not frightened. And wouldn’t they laugh, the boys at
the Booster Club back home, when he sprung this yarn on them! He could
hear them. Oh, Boy! Say, listen, trying to scare him, Howard Cornelius
Puce, with a ghost like that! Aw, it was like shooting craps with a guy
that couldn’t count. Poor old Quillier! Never bet less than five hundred
on anything, didn’t he, the poor boob! Well, there wasn’t a ghost made,
with or without a head on him, that could put the wind up Howard Puce.
No, sir!
For, as his eyes had grown accustomed to the darkness, and helped by the
mockery of light that the clouded, moonless night just managed to thrust
through the distant window, the gentleman from America had been able to
make out a form at the foot of the bed. He could only see its upper
half, and that appeared to end above the throat. The phantom had no
head. Whereas Julia’s head had been only half-severed from--Aw, what the
hell!
“A family like the Kerr-Andersons,” began Mr. Puce, chuckling--but
suddenly found, to his astonishment, that he was shouting at the top of
his voice: anyhow, it sounded so. However, he began again, much lower,
but still chuckling:
“Say, listen, Mr. Ghost, a family like the Kerr-Andersons might have
afforded a head and a suit of clothes for their family ghost. Sir, you
are one big bum phantom!” Again, unaccountably, Mr. Puce found himself
shouting at the top of his voice. “I am going on counting,” he added
grimly.
And, his automatic levelled at the thing’s heart, the gentleman from
America went on counting. His voice was steady.
“Five ... six....”
He sat crouched at the head of the bed, his eyes never off the thing’s
breast. Phantom nothing! He didn’t believe in that no-head bunk. What
the hell! He thought of getting a little nearer the foot of the bed and
catching the thing a whack on that invisible head of his, but decided to
stay where he was.
“Seven ... eight....”
He hadn’t seen the hands before. Gee, some hands! And arms! Holy Moses,
he’d got long arms to him, he had....
“Nine!” said the gentleman from America.
Christopher and Columbus, but this would make some tale back home! Yes,
sir! Not a bad idea of Quillier’s, that, though! Those arms. Long as old
glory ... long as the bed! Not bad for _Sir_ Cyril Quillier, that
idea....
“Ten, you swine!” yelled the gentleman from America and fired.
Someone laughed. Mr. Puce quite distinctly heard himself laughing, and
that made him laugh again. Fur goodness’ sake, what a shot! Missed from
that distance!
His eyes, as he made to take aim again, were bothered by the drops of
sweat from his forehead. “Aw, what the hell!” said Mr. Puce, and fired
again.
The silence after the second shot was like a black cloud on the
darkness. Mr. Puce thought out the wickedest word he knew, and said it.
Well, he wasn’t going to miss again. No, sir! His hand was steady as
iron, too. Iron was his second name. And again the gentleman from
America found it quite delicious, the feeling that he was not
frightened. Attaboy! The drops of sweat from his forehead bothered him,
though. Aw, what the hell, that was only excitement.
He raised his arm for the third shot. Jupiter and Jane, but he’d learn
that ghost to stop ghosting! He was certainly sorry for that ghost. He
wished, though, that he could concentrate more on the actual body of the
headless thing. There it was, darn it, at the foot of the bed, staring
at him--well, it would have been staring at him if it had a head. Aw, of
course it had a head! It was only Quillier with his lousy face in a
black wrap. _Sir_ Cyril Quillier’d get one piece of lead in him this
time, though. His own fault, the bastard.
“Say, listen, Quillier,” said the gentleman from America, “I want to
tell you that unless you quit you are a corpse. Now I mean it, sure as
my name is Howard Cornelius Puce. I have been shooting to miss so far.
Yes, sir. But I am now _an_noyed. You get me, kid?”
If only, though, he could concentrate more on the body of the thing. His
eyes kept wandering to the hands and arms. Gee, but they sure were long,
those arms! As long as the bed, no less. Just long enough for the hands
to get at him from the foot of the bed. And that’s what they were at,
what’s more! Coming nearer. What the hell! They were moving, those
doggone arms, nearer and nearer....
Mr. Puce fired again.
That was no miss. He knew that was no miss. Right through the heart,
that little boy must have gone. In that darkness he couldn’t see more
than just the shape of the thing. Aw, Goddammit! But it was still now.
The arms were still. They weren’t moving any more. The gentleman from
America chuckled. That one had shown him that it’s a wise little crack
of a ghost that stops ghosting. Yes, sir! It certainly would fall in a
moment, dead as Argentine mutton.
Mr. Puce then swore. Those arms were moving again. The hands weren’t a
yard from him now. What the hell! They were for his throat, Goddammit.
“You swine!” sobbed the gentleman from America, and fired again. But he
wouldn’t wait this time. No, sir! He’d let that ghost have a ton of
lead. Mr. Puce fired again. Those hands weren’t half-a-yard from his
throat now. No good shooting at the hands, though. Thing was to get the
thing through the heart. Mr. Puce fired the sixth bullet. Right into the
thing’s chest. The sweat bothered his eyes. “Aw, hell!” said Mr. Puce.
He wished the bed was a bit longer. He couldn’t get back any more. Those
arms.... Holy Moses; long as hell, weren’t they! Mr. Puce fired the
seventh, eighth ... ninth. Right into the thing. The revolver fell from
Mr. Puce’s shaking fingers. Mr. Puce heard himself screaming.