The haunting hand
Where could he have hidden, I’d like to know?”
“Just a _minute_!” Margot couldn’t control a low laugh at Hart’s
impatience. “Murchison was _not_ in this room. If he _had_ been he’d
have been caught. But his _hand_ was! Look! I’ll show you.”
She pointed to the small register with its iron grill-work, a few
inches above the level of the floor, in the wall against which the
head of the bed had stood. Mrs. Bellew, up to that moment obediently
silent and motionless in her corner, came across the room with dilated
eyes. She stood, as did the others, staring at the spot indicated by
Margot, who was asking Hart to test it and telling him that he would
find it loose. Murchison, she asserted, had loosened it.
“Do you see?” she said eagerly. “The hole’s big enough to let through
a hand and arm. It would be quite possible for a long arm to reach to
the spot where the lights appeared.”
“And it’s a long arm he had. I remember it well!” Mrs. Bellew could no
longer keep silent.
Hart fumbled with the grill-work. It gave way under his fingers and
slid to one side. A dark hole gaped in the wall.
“I’ll be damned if you’re not right!” Hart exploded. “But I still
don’t get the part about the lights.” He stood up and stared at Margot
inquiringly.
“It’s like this, Mr. Hart. Murchison has been tunneling through from
the adjoining house. I calculate that he’d almost finished his job the
night the trouble started--trouble for me, I mean,” she added with a
laugh. “Of course it’s been awfully slow work. Once he got the grill
loosened, he was able to reach in and suppress the lights on the
rug--over and over again. He must have thought that the light from my
match was like the others he’d seen. The point is, he couldn’t risk
letting _any_ flame or light, call attention to the secret chamber
underneath.”
“Fine!” Hart’s thin face glowed with satisfaction and understanding.
“But there’s just one thing, Miss Anstruther, which I don’t get. Why
didn’t Murchison pick some quiet afternoon when he could have felt
fairly sure the room wasn’t occupied, and sneak in by the roof, the
way the girl did?”
“I think I’ve checked up on that,” Margot said quietly. She turned to
the landlady. “Isn’t it a fact, Mrs. Bellew, that between Stella’s
tenancy and mine, this room was occupied by two women?”
“Yes, dearie, a couple of cranky old maids they were, hipped on the
subject of thieves breaking in and stealing their valuables, although
I never could see what they had that anybody’d want.”
“So one or the other of these women was always in the room? Is that
right?”
“You’re right, Miss Anstruther. It was that roof they were most scared
of. They wouldn’t trust no locks or bars.”
Margot turned shining eyes to Hart. “Isn’t that your answer?” she
asked him eagerly. “Aren’t you convinced?”
“I sure am.” His dry, inexpressive face showed a degree of enthusiasm
that flattered Margot more subtly than his admiring: “There aren’t
many detectives on the Force as good as you are, Miss Anstruther. I’m
here to tell the world that!”
“I don’t believe, Hart, that you’ve got one quite so good!” Gene’s
eulogy was accompanied by a glance of such mute admiration that Margot
had to stifle a mad desire to run to him and throw her arms around his
neck, regardless of her audience.
Then the natural-born pessimist in Hart came to the front.
“It’s too bad,” he said gloomily, “that we didn’t have this
information three days ago. The old fellow’s had plenty of time to
make his getaway. He won’t be easy to find.”
“You may be right, but my opinion of Murchison is that he simply
couldn’t tear himself away and leave that radium behind.”
“You’re right, Miss!” Stella once more became articulate.
“I’m almost sure he’s still living right next door. He wouldn’t start
tunneling till late at night. I suggest that you go and take a look.”
She pointed to the wall.
“Ask whoever owns the house next door to let you examine the room
corresponding to this one.”
Hart, full of doubts, but ready by now to follow any lead suggested by
Margot, marshaled his men, and departed, taking Stella with him.
Before they left the room, Margot went up to Stella, and put her hand
with a kindly pressure on the girl’s thin shoulder.
“My dear,” she said softly, “I don’t know anything about you; where
you came from, or what. But I do believe that you’ve been more sinned
against than sinning, from the very beginning--whatever that beginning
was. Perhaps you’ll tell me some day. In the meantime, my dear, try to
believe in my sincere sympathy. I’m going to stand by you and see that
you get a square deal, first and last. I don’t mean merely the trial
which I’m afraid you’ll have to stand. I mean _after_ that. I’m going
to help you every way I can--a good job, a decent home, all the rest
of it.”
She took Stella’s left hand in hers and gave it a little squeeze. She
smiled into her eyes--eyes as naturally distrustful as a cat’s, but
into which came a quivering light of gratitude and animal affection
such as a child feels for those who give it tenderness and love. The
beauty of trust and tenderness in Margot’s lovely face, had conquered
the girl’s ugly spirit.
Margot dismissed or rather escaped the landlady and her inevitable
bombardment of questions and excited conjectures by telling her that
her head ached from the long strain, and that she must rest, then go
for a walk and fresh air. In her room upstairs, to which she had
beckoned Gene, she dropped wearily into an armchair, let him light a
cigarette for her, and closed her eyes, slowly inhaling and blowing
the smoke out from her parted lips. Gene sat quite still, smoking and
watching her, but venturing no word nor caress. It was the most
complete demonstration he could have made, of unity with her, and
intelligent devotion.
When Margot finally opened her eyes and looked at him, she said
softly:
“Gene, dear, I didn’t realize what a brick you are--just the _kind_ of
a brick I like best,” she added with one of her humorous twists to
commonplace things, and a twinkle in her gray eyes.
“You flatter me,” he said smiling, but not moving from his chair.
Again she was astonished at his understanding of her. She wasn’t quite
ready for any demonstrative expression of his feeling for her, and he
knew it. Suddenly she felt that she would be ready for it sooner than
she had supposed possible.
“The thing I like best,” she went on, “is that you’ve let me rest
here, and haven’t asked me a single question, and all the time I know
you’ve just been seething with a desire to ask one _particular_
question, ‘ain’t it the truth?’” She laughed at the surprised widening
of his eyes.
“If you know that much, I won’t have to ask it,” he said, his smile
warming to a grin of appreciation of her quick wit.
“Question and answer--I’ll supply both. You’re wondering if I have the
least idea, or rather an _opinion_, as to who the man was who came
with Murchison the night Stella was injured. Well, my dear old scout,
I certainly have--more than either an idea or an opinion. I’ve got a
life-sized conviction--otherwise known as a _hunch_!”
“And _I’m_ thinking,” Gene said quickly, “that either I’m reading your
mind with uncanny ease, or else I’m more of a sleuth than I supposed,
for I know whom you mean--your mystery-man, with the pale eyes--your
Superfilm director, Frederick Stoner.”
“By jove!” she said with boyish eagerness. “You certainly are getting
on! I’m thrilled, I’m proud of you, Gene!”
“Well, I’ve gotten that far, but I’m damned if I see just how he’s
been actually mixed up in it, except that I’ve followed your
deductions pretty closely, and perhaps thought transference had
something to do with it. I knew you meant Stoner, and that’s all I do
know.”
“Didn’t his picture, _The Masque of Life_, give you a clue--I mean
something more than your first wrong guess about the powers of
radium?”
“Certainly! The impression was vague at first, but afterwards, when I
listened to some of the things you brought out, I made sense out of
two things: Stoner’s evident knowledge, superficial though it might
be--of radium, and his attitude from the beginning, of being so eager
to have you drop the mystery. Those two things seem to join up in my
mind to indicate that Stoner must have had some connection with the
theft of the radium. Is that what you mean, Margot?”
“No, not that he was involved in the theft of it. He would be too
cautious for anything like that, and besides, impossible as he is in
some ways, he’s _not_ a crook, whether from lack of nerve or
inclination, I don’t know. I’ll give you another guess,” she
challenged him.
“My mind’s a blank. Go on, dear. My curiosity threatens to overpower
me.”
“Well--here’s the dope, as Stella Ball would put it. For days my
suspicion regarding Stoner has been growing. That picture merely
confirmed it. I felt instinctively that his _blah_ about publicity was
just that--blah--bunk. I knew that he was afraid of _something_. It
was for his own sake, not mine, that he wanted me to drop the case.
That meant he had something to conceal. And then, don’t forget that
queer look I used to see in his eyes, every now and then. The look I
first noticed when I gave this house as my address. But still I was
vague as to the real motive back of it all.”
“And that picture supplied the missing link of cause and effect?” Gene
asked with quick grasp of her chain of thought.
“Righto! That first, then Stella’s story about the mysterious ‘fat
man,’ who didn’t want to buy the radium but only _rent_ it. Now _why_
would a movie director want to rent radium from a crook? Again, answer
and question, both supplied while you wait.” Her laugh was infectious.
“Now listen carefully, old dear. Stoner’s of the old school--full of
notions about impressing the poor, long-suffering public, with the
wildest sort of hoakum. And he’s rather ignorant, outside of his
business. What he knew about things such as radium, you could stuff
into a thimble.”
“I get you,” Gene interrupted eagerly. “That radium machine in the
picture! He must have been working on that picture just at the time
Stella disappeared. He got to a certain point, then he was
stumped,--couldn’t get the effects he wanted, so he decided to try to
get hold of some radium. Must have read about the theft from the
Fellowe Institute, but how the devil did he tie up with Murchison?”
“That’s something we may or may not find out. All depends on what we
_do_ with Stoner.” Again she laughed, overcome with humor at
remembrance of Stoner’s weak attempts to fake radium. “Wasn’t it
_funny_ the way he made that diabolical machine glow in the dark, and
shoot out rays like forked lightning? He must have thought that it had
those properties. About as much like _radium_ as mud! But how sore he
must have been, with his bug about realism, when events forced him to
get his effects by hoakum, and rotten hoakum at that!”
“Speaking of ‘hoakum,’ may I be permitted, my dear girl, to outrage
your feelings by applying just that word to most of your eloquence on
the subject of ‘ignis fatuus’--‘corpse
candle’--‘will-o’-the-wisp’--whatever it’s called?” Gene grinned at
her teasingly.
“You’d outrage my _intelligence_--and your own--if you didn’t regard
my eloquence on the subject in just that light. Of course there’s more
than a grain of truth as to the unproved yet undeniable possibilities
regarding the phosphorescence from dead animal and vegetable matter.
But in this case I skimmed lightly over thin ice--weak logic--in
certain places.”
“Notably,” Gene interjected quickly, “in your ignoring of the fact
that if the desiccated arm had been preserved from decay by heat and
dryness, no exhaling of phosphorescence would be possible. I had to