Ghost Stories of an Antiquary
before he went to bed, and here was his cigarette-end on the sill of
the middle window.
He started to go down to breakfast. Rather late, but Number 13 was
later: here were his boots still outside his door—a gentleman’s boots.
So then Number 13 was a man, not a woman. Just then he caught sight of
the number on the door. It was 14. He thought he must have passed
Number 13 without noticing it. Three stupid mistakes in twelve hours
were too much for a methodical, accurate-minded man, so he turned back
to make sure. The next number to 14 was number 12, his own room. There
was no Number 13 at all.
After some minutes devoted to a careful consideration of everything he
had had to eat and drink during the last twenty-four hours, Anderson
decided to give the question up. If his eyes or his brain were giving
way he would have plenty of opportunities for ascertaining that fact;
if not, then he was evidently being treated to a very interesting
experience. In either case the development of events would certainly be
worth watching.
During the day he continued his examination of the episcopal
correspondence which I have already summarized. To his disappointment,
it was incomplete. Only one other letter could be found which referred
to the affair of Mag Nicolas Francken. It was from the Bishop Jörgen
Friis to Rasmus Nielsen. He said:
“Although we are not in the least degree inclined to assent to your
judgement concerning our court, and shall be prepared if need be to
withstand you to the uttermost in that behalf, yet forasmuch as our
trusty and well-beloved Mag Nicolas Francken, against whom you have
dared to allege certain false and malicious charges, hath been suddenly
removed from among us, it is apparent that the question for this time
falls. But forasmuch as you further allege that the Apostle and
Evangelist St John in his heavenly Apocalypse describes the Holy Roman
Church under the guise and symbol of the Scarlet Woman, be it known to
you,” etc.
Search as he might, Anderson could find no sequel to this letter nor
any clue to the cause or manner of the “removal” of the _casus belli_.
He could only suppose that Francken had died suddenly; and as there
were only two days between the date of Nielsen’s last letter—when
Francken was evidently still in being—and that of the Bishop’s letter,
the death must have been completely unexpected.
In the afternoon he paid a short visit to Hald, and took his tea at
Baekkelund; nor could he notice, though he was in a somewhat nervous
frame of mind, that there was any indication of such a failure of eye
or brain as his experiences of the morning had led him to fear.
At supper he found himself next to the landlord.
“What,” he asked him, after some indifferent conversation, “is the
reason why in most of the hotels one visits in this country the number
thirteen is left out of the list of rooms? I see you have none here.”
The landlord seemed amused.
“To think that you should have noticed a thing like that! I’ve thought
about it once or twice myself, to tell the truth. An educated man, I’ve
said, has no business with these superstitious notions. I was brought
up myself here in the high school of Viborg, and our old master was
always a man to set his face against anything of that kind. He’s been
dead now this many years—a fine upstanding man he was, and ready with
his hands as well as his head. I recollect us boys, one snowy day—”
Here he plunged into reminiscence.
“Then you don’t think there is any particular objection to having a
Number 13?” said Anderson.
“Ah! to be sure. Well, you understand, I was brought up to the business
by my poor old father. He kept an hotel in Aarhuus first, and then,
when we were born, he moved to Viborg here, which was his native place,
and had the Phœnix here until he died. That was in 1876. Then I started
business in Silkeborg, and only the year before last I moved into this
house.”
Then followed more details as to the state of the house and business
when first taken over.
“And when you came here, was there a Number 13?”
“No, no. I was going to tell you about that. You see, in a place like
this, the commercial class—the travellers—are what we have to provide
for in general. And put them in Number 13? Why, they’d as soon sleep in
the street, or sooner. As far as I’m concerned myself, it wouldn’t make
a penny difference to me what the number of my room was, and so I’ve
often said to them; but they stick to it that it brings them bad luck.
Quantities of stories they have among them of men that have slept in a
Number 13 and never been the same again, or lost their best customers,
or—one thing and another,” said the landlord, after searching for a
more graphic phrase.
“Then, what do you use your Number 13 for?” said Anderson, conscious as
he said the words of a curious anxiety quite disproportionate to the
importance of the question.
“My Number 13? Why, don’t I tell you that there isn’t such a thing in
the house? I thought you might have noticed that. If there was it would
be next door to your own room.”
“Well, yes; only I happened to think—that is, I fancied last night that
I had seen a door numbered thirteen in that passage; and, really, I am
almost certain I must have been right, for I saw it the night before as
well.”
Of course, Herr Kristensen laughed this notion to scorn, as Anderson
had expected, and emphasized with much iteration the fact that no
Number 13 existed or had existed before him in that hotel.
Anderson was in some ways relieved by his certainty, but still puzzled,
and he began to think that the best way to make sure whether he had
indeed been subject to an illusion or not was to invite the landlord to
his room to smoke a cigar later on in the evening. Some photographs of
English towns which he had with him formed a sufficiently good excuse.
Herr Kristensen was flattered by the invitation, and most willingly
accepted it. At about ten o’clock he was to make his appearance, but
before that Anderson had some letters to write, and retired for the
purpose of writing them. He almost blushed to himself at confessing it,
but he could not deny that it was the fact that he was becoming quite
nervous about the question of the existence of Number 13; so much so
that he approached his room by way of Number 11, in order that he might
not be obliged to pass the door, or the place where the door ought to
be. He looked quickly and suspiciously about the room when he entered
it, but there was nothing, beyond that indefinable air of being smaller
than usual, to warrant any misgivings. There was no question of the
presence or absence of his portmanteau tonight. He had himself emptied
it of its contents and lodged it under his bed. With a certain effort
he dismissed the thought of Number 13 from his mind, and sat down to
his writing.
His neighbours were quiet enough. Occasionally a door opened in the
passage and a pair of boots was thrown out, or a bagman walked past
humming to himself, and outside, from time to time, a cart thundered
over the atrocious cobble-stones, or a quick step hurried along the
flags.
Anderson finished his letters, ordered in whisky and soda, and then
went to the window and studied the dead wall opposite and the shadows
upon it.
As far as he could remember, Number 14 had been occupied by the lawyer,
a staid man, who said little at meals, being generally engaged in
studying a small bundle of papers beside his plate. Apparently,
however, he was in the habit of giving vent to his animal spirits when
alone. Why else should he be dancing? The shadow from the next room
evidently showed that he was. Again and again his thin form crossed the
window, his arms waved, and a gaunt leg was kicked up with surprising
agility. He seemed to be barefooted, and the floor must be well laid,
for no sound betrayed his movements. Sagförer Herr Anders Jensen,
dancing at ten o’clock at night in a hotel bedroom, seemed a fitting
subject for a historical painting in the grand style; and Anderson’s
thoughts, like those of Emily in the “Mysteries of Udolpho”, began to
“arrange themselves in the following lines”:
“When I return to my hotel,
At ten o’clock p.m.,
The waiters think I am unwell;
I do not care for them.
But when I’ve locked my chamber door,
And put my boots outside,
I dance all night upon the floor.
And even if my neighbours swore,
I’d go on dancing all the more,
For I’m acquainted with the law,
And in despite of all their jaw,
Their protests I deride.”
Had not the landlord at this moment knocked at the door, it is probable
that quite a long poem might have been laid before the reader. To judge
from his look of surprise when he found himself in the room, Herr
Kristensen was struck, as Anderson had been, by something unusual in
its aspect. But he made no remark. Anderson’s photographs interested
him mightily, and formed the text of many autobiographical discourses.
Nor is it quite clear how the conversation could have been diverted
into the desired channel of Number 13, had not the lawyer at this
moment begun to sing, and to sing in a manner which could leave no
doubt in anyone’s mind that he was either exceedingly drunk or raving
mad. It was a high, thin voice that they heard, and it seemed dry, as
if from long disuse. Of words or tune there was no question. It went
sailing up to a surprising height, and was carried down with a
despairing moan as of a winter wind in a hollow chimney, or an organ
whose wind fails suddenly. It was a really horrible sound, and Anderson
felt that if he had been alone he must have fled for refuge and society
to some neighbour bagman’s room.
The landlord sat open-mouthed.
“I don’t understand it,” he said at last, wiping his forehead. “It is
dreadful. I have heard it once before, but I made sure it was a cat.”
“Is he mad?” said Anderson.
“He must be; and what a sad thing! Such a good customer, too, and so
successful in his business, by what I hear, and a young family to bring
up.”
Just then came an impatient knock at the door, and the knocker entered,
without waiting to be asked. It was the lawyer, in _déshabille_ and
very rough-haired; and very angry he looked.
“I beg pardon, sir,” he said, “but I should be much obliged if you
would kindly desist—”
Here he stopped, for it was evident that neither of the persons before
him was responsible for the disturbance; and after a moment’s lull it
swelled forth again more wildly than before.
“But what in the name of Heaven does it mean?” broke out the lawyer.
“Where is it? Who is it? Am I going out of my mind?”
“Surely, Herr Jensen, it comes from your room next door? Isn’t there a
cat or something stuck in the chimney?”
This was the best that occurred to Anderson to say, and he realized its
futility as he spoke; but anything was better than to stand and listen
to that horrible voice, and look at the broad, white face of the
landlord, all perspiring and quivering as he clutched the arms of his
chair.
“Impossible,” said the lawyer, “impossible. There is no chimney. I came
here because I was convinced the noise was going on here. It was
certainly in the next room to mine.”
“Was there no door between yours and mine?” said Anderson eagerly.
“No, sir,” said Herr Jensen, rather sharply. “At least, not this
morning.”
“Ah!” said Anderson. “Nor tonight?”
“I am not sure,” said the lawyer with some hesitation.
Suddenly the crying or singing voice in the next room died away, and
the singer was heard seemingly to laugh to himself in a crooning
manner. The three men actually shivered at the sound. Then there was a
silence.
“Come,” said the lawyer, “what have you to say, Herr Kristensen? What
does this mean?”
“Good Heaven!” said Kristensen. “How should I tell! I know no more than