The haunting hand
I’ve read the stuff in the papers, but I want to see the room for
myself, and make certain observations before telling you what I
think.”
Margot’s reasoning powers and sense of justice told her that either
she must dismiss Stoner and his theories forthwith, or, if curious to
learn what his theory was, and willing to believe in his sincerity in
the matter, then she must let him do what he suggested doing, for
obviously one couldn’t be sure of a theory holding water if it was
built on hearsay and second-hand descriptions. It would do no harm to
show him the room, in any case. The policeman on guard wouldn’t care
whom she brought. So she told Stoner that she would show him the room,
but that he would have to make his inspection in the presence of the
policeman.
They went to the floor below, knocked and were admitted by one of the
men who alternated with Quinlan and Boyle. The room was dimly lighted.
Evidently it had been decided not to keep guard in the darkness, at
least during what the Irishman called the “shank of the evening.”
Margot watched Stoner throw a swift, appraising look over the room. He
turned to her saying:
“You’ve left all your own things down here, haven’t you?”
“Everything but my personal effects. It seemed best that way.”
Stoner addressed the cop with genial familiarity.
“Mind if I give this place the once over? Here, have one?” He gave the
cop a fat cigar. “I’ll have a squint behind the bed first off the bat,
I guess.”
Margot couldn’t repress a smile of vast amusement, seeing the heavy
bulk that was Stoner, get down on all fours and look under the bed. He
got to his feet and pulled out the brass bed. Then again he got down
on the floor, looked at the walls and along the baseboard. He had the
air of doing all this as a matter of form, because all the rest had
done the same thing. He turned to Margot with a wave of his arm at the
bed, then said, as he pushed the bed back in place:
“Just eliminating. Have to look at every detail of course, the way the
rest of the Sherlocks have been doing. Now for something more to the
point.”
He walked to the door leading to the roof-garden, then walked back to
the bed, slowly pacing off the distance. Then he returned to the door,
opened it and went out on the roof. Margot could see him gazing at the
houses across the way, whose rear windows could be seen with curtains
drawn back and bright lights shining. He re-entered the room and went
to the window, looked out, then squatted down as he was accustomed to
do when looking from certain angles at scenes he was about to have
shot. He peered through his hands at the bed and at the floor beside
the bed, and again he looked out of the window.
By that time the policeman was gaping in sheer astonishment at the
antics of this strange man. Margot, not in the least impressed but
wondering what Stoner was getting at, waited in silence. Then he
walked to the bed and stood looking down at the rug.
“Show me exactly where you saw that light--where you saw the hand tap
the light out.”
Margot showed him.
“Do you sleep with your shade up?”
“Yes, usually, so it won’t flap with the window open.”
“When you leaned over the side of the bed to look for the match you
dropped, did you reach your arm over the side a ways before you saw
the hand?”
Wondering what he had in his mind, but convinced now that he had
something more than an idle curiosity, or a ruse to visit her against
her will, Margot told him that so far as she remembered, she did
stretch out her arm over the side of the bed before she saw the hand.
“Humph! I thought as much.” He grinned with satisfaction, and gave the
policeman another cigar. “Now, Margot, I’ve got every reason for
feeling sure of my little theory. Come over here a minute.” He walked
to the window, opened it, and pointed across the way.
“See that house over there, directly in line with this window?”
“Yes,” said Margot, vaguely, standing behind him.
He turned, looking back at the bed.
“See that place on the rug where you saw the light? Right in a line
with this window, isn’t it?”
Margot nodded, seeing that his comment was correct. A dim suspicion of
what he had in mind, had come to her, and with it a slight quickening
of interest in what more he had to say.
“Well, go on. What’s the answer?”
“My dear young lady, not here. In your present abode, if you don’t
mind.”
Simple and natural of course. No reason why he should air his theory,
good or bad, before the policeman. Again Margot’s reason made it
impossible for her to refuse his request. As the door closed on them,
and he sat once more in her easy chair, he smiled, a long, slow smile
of utter contentment.
“Don’t keep me in suspense,” she said with a little laugh.
“Now listen carefully. Anyone standing at the window of that floor in
that house I pointed out to you, could flash a light straight into
your room. With the clever use of a burning-glass, a spot from a
calcium light backed by a reflector could be made to move about and do
queer stunts on that rug where the policeman saw the light. You were
half asleep you said, and it all happened in a jiffy. I’ve seen queer
things done with a mirror.”
She listened, amazed at the ingenuity of his theory.
“But the arm and hand. Calcium light and a burning-glass can do a good
deal, but they can’t manufacture hands and arms.”
“Why, my dear girl, I’m surprised at you. You’re too smart to ask such
a question! You put your arm over the side of the bed, to reach for
the match. Well, it’s so simple it’s funny! The light and the mirror
threw the reflection of your own arm and hand on the rug.”
“But,” Margot gasped, half convinced. “I _saw_ a hand _tap_ the
match.”
“Sure you did. You saw your own hand tap that match. Don’t you
understand? You saw an apparently ghostly arm and hand on the floor.
You were scared stiff, and you didn’t know after that _what_ you did
or didn’t do. Automatically you did the very thing you’d started out
to do--put out the match. Of course you thought you saw another hand
do it. Isn’t it clear?”
Margot almost thought it was, but she wasn’t quite sure.
“How about the hand and arm seen by Boyle?”
“Good Lord! That doesn’t need much explaining, seems to me. Case of
superstitious fear. You’d told how _you_ saw the hand, so when the
calcium light flashed again--pleasant little practical joke, by the
way--it stands to reason, doesn’t it, that Boyle imagined the same
thing you saw, even to tapping out the light.”
The logic of the argument was evident, and the theory as to the
calcium light and the mirror fairly reasonable. Margot felt sure of
that. But deep down in her consciousness was a strange conviction, and
it grew as she listened to Stoner and watched his face. It was the
conviction that his theory was actually false, that Stoner knew it was
false, and that for some reason too obscure to imagine, he was intent
upon convincing her of its validity. The queer sensation of distrust
of the man was stronger than ever before.
She knew what she must do. She must not let him guess her distrust of
him--foundless as it actually was--nor let him realize that every
instinct she possessed was ranged against the sincerity or
plausibility of his amazing theory. So she smiled sweetly and said:
“You’re tremendously clever, Mr. Stoner. I’d never have thought of
such a thing in a thousand years. I shall certainly follow up your
theory. It will be easy to find out who lives in that house and in
that apartment, and look into the matter of the calcium light.”
“Good Lord, you wouldn’t be so foolish. You don’t suppose anyone given
to practical jokes like that is going to admit it. You’d never find
out or prove a thing. My only idea in telling you about it is to help
you eliminate other theories that may lead you into all sorts of
trouble and waste of time.”
“I see,” she said softly, watching his face through the smoke from her
parted lips, her eyes half closed. “And of course, even if we did
succeed in proving that the lights were a practical joke, and even if
I were convinced that I saw my own hand put out the match, in a moment
of hysteria, that wouldn’t any of it explain the entrance into my room
by way of the roof, of Miss Stella Ball, would it, Mr. Stoner?”
His thick lips pouted. His eyes glowered at her.
“You don’t think much of my theory, after all, do you?”
“Yes,” she said quickly. “I think it’s a marvelous theory, and I think
it ought to be given due consideration. But I think that there are
other things to consider also.”
“What, for instance?”
“Well,” she said slowly, “I’ve still got a little theory of my own
about Stella Ball being in some way connected with what I saw.”
“Ridiculous!” His exclamation was almost savage in its disgust. “What
in the name of God _could_ she have to do with it--a common midnight
marauder--a little sneak thief!”
“Well, that’s all got to be proved, Mr. Stoner.”
“Do you mean to say,” he stared at her, “that you persist in going on
with this silly investigation?”
Quickly she decided to lie to him.
“Well, perhaps you’re right. Perhaps it would be a waste of time, and
do me harm. Perhaps I’d better take your advice, Mr. Stoner.”
She hadn’t imagined what her sudden meekness would bring forth. He
sprang to his feet, went toward her with outstretched arms and bent
over her murmuring:
“You’re a darling. You do care a little for me, don’t you?”
Margot got to her feet without confusion or haste. She stepped out of
his reach and said quietly:
“Mr. Stoner, you must really understand that I don’t permit any man to
come to my room alone to make love to me. I let you in because you had
something important to tell me. Now please leave this love business
out of it altogether.”
For a moment he stood still looking at her. Then he said:
“Look here, Margot! Is this stuff about being alone in your room, the
truth, or are you stalling because you won’t let me make love to you
here or anywhere else?”
She hesitated. “Let’s talk about that some other time,” she said
gently.
“No! You’ll tell me here and now. Valery comes to your room, doesn’t
he! I’m crazy about you, girl. I can’t stand it, I tell you.”
There was no mistaking the look in his eyes. No matter what he had
come for, nor what his motives might be for elaborating the theory
about the lights, she had now to deal with a man whose passions were
something to be reckoned with. She moved a step farther away from him.
It was an unwise move. Suddenly, and without warning, he sprang across
the space between them, seized her, and crushed her in his big arms.
She struggled, but he was stronger than she, and he pinned her arms to
her sides, and kissed her with furious, pent-up desire; kissed her
mouth, her throat, her shoulder, all the time drawing her over to the
couch against the wall.
Margot would not scream. It would be a senseless thing to do. With all
her rage and strength she fought him. She tore one hand free and with
all her force struck him across the mouth. The pain of the blow was
nothing, but the fact that she would strike him seemed to change the
current of his passion. He let her go and stood looking at her, wiping
the blood from his cut lips with his handkerchief.
“Some men,” he said slowly, “like to be hit and even bitten by a woman
when she’s angry. I don’t, not when it’s clear that the woman hasn’t
any use for me. I’m through trying to make love to you, Miss Margot
Anstruther. And I’m through with a few other things too.”
“You had no right to force your kisses on me,” she said quietly.
“Let that pass. I’ll give you one more chance. Will you or will you
not, try to like me and promise to marry me later on?”
“Good Heavens, no!” she said, with so much sincerity that it was like