The haunting hand
hysterical. And I’m not the kind to get any man out of bed in the
middle of the night, just on a wild goose chase!”
The tenderness that filled his eyes and his tentative move toward her,
as if to express his tenderness, brought sudden consciousness to
Margot of her unclad condition. She was too well bred to apologize or
refer to it in words, but she reached to the foot of the bed, seized a
silk kimono that lay there, and slipped it on quickly. Then she looked
at him almost impersonally, her eyes bright with the keenness of the
thought that had come to her.
“Gene! There’s a mystery, sure enough, about this room, and we’re
going to solve it. At least I am, and I’d like to have your help.”
Whatever he may have thought about mysteries which brought Margot
nearer to him in dependence and trust, he was wise enough to keep to
himself. All he said was:
“Righto! I’m keen about detective stuff. You furnish the Sherlock
Holmes end of it, Margot, and I’ll attend to any scrapping that may
form part of the game.”
Her face softened and her voice deepened with a throaty note, as
always when she was deeply stirred.
“You’re _such_ a brick, Gene, dear!” Then her lips quivered into a
smile which made his heart beat faster. “You’re--you’re wonderful to
me. I don’t know what I’d have done without you to-night.”
Her eyes filled with sudden tears and she shivered, drawing the kimono
closer about her. He took an eager step toward her.
“Margot--darling--you’re all in. You’ve had a fearful nervous shock.”
The sympathy in his voice broke down her last reserve. She had poise,
and character and a clever brain, but first and last she was feminine
and she had been badly frightened.
“You--you don’t know what I’ve been through!” She bent a little toward
him as if her own strength were not enough for her.
In the next few minutes, as Margot’s head lay against his shoulder,
and dry, nervous sobs shook her slight body, Gene had the sort of
struggle that few women understand, to compel his arms to express the
tenderness and protective gentleness that was what she wanted of him,
and restrain their passionate yearning to crush her against his heart.
Margot understood perfectly. She felt the trembling that went over him
like a wave, from head to foot, and she felt his soft kiss on her
hair. For the first time she wondered if she didn’t love Gene well
enough for--well, for marriage and all the rest.
His protective strength gave her back her self-control, and it gave
her something else--a realization that it would be good to have Gene’s
love and strength to depend upon. Still clinging to him with one hand,
with the other she rubbed her eyes, then gave a tremulous laugh.
“For an independent female who wants no man’s help, I’m doing rather
well, don’t you think, Gene?”
She looked up into his eyes, and their smile invited his caress. He
bent his lips to hers and for the first time since he had loved her,
Margot’s kiss told him that she cared more for him than any words of
hers had admitted.
He kissed her hair, her temple, her throat, just under her ear where
her hair swept back. Then he whispered into her ear.
“Darling--you do love me--just a little, don’t you?”
“Just a little,” she whispered back. As if afraid that she had
surrendered too much and too quickly, she drew gently out of his arms,
with a glance that told him he mustn’t press the advantage gained.
Then a frown drew her eyes together, as if to remind him that the
situation demanded concentrated thought and action, unrelated to
love-making.
“Gene, whether I ever sleep again in this room or not, I’ve _got_ to
know what was under my bed and where it went to. You said you’d help
me?”
“You bet I will!” His smile was apparently as unemotional as his
words.
She stared at the rug where the match had fallen, as if to seek there
the first clue in the unraveling of the mystery. Suddenly she ran to
the spot, across the few feet of space intervening. She threw herself,
literally, to her knees and bent her head close to the rug. Then,
excitedly she called to him, without lifting her head.
“Gene! Come here! Look at this!”
He got down on his knees beside her and looked where she pointed. What
he saw was a distinct hollow in the nap of the rug, a hollow the size
of the tip of a human finger. Into this the black char from the
burning match had been pressed and smudged.
Slowly they got to their feet and stood in silence for a few seconds,
looked at each other with widened eyes. Gene, for the first time since
he had reached the room, looked sincerely puzzled and uncertain.
“I guess that settles it,” Margot said slowly. “I wasn’t just ‘seein’
things at night.’ Not even a real ghost could have made that mark on
the rug. Now, what?”
“Now,” Gene said thoughtfully, “with your permission, I’m going to
call the police.”
She hesitated. Her glance wavered from the spot on the rug, to the
telephone, then to Gene.
“I think we’d better. It would be foolish to wait till daylight. Of
course they may think us a couple of idiots. Policemen haven’t much
imagination.”
Gene walked to the telephone and called up the police.
“And now, my dear,” said Margot, “I’ve got to put on some clothes
before they get here. I’ll have to do it here, for I’m scared to go
into the bathroom--it might be tenanted.” She gave a nervous laugh.
“So shut your eyes, old dear, or turn your back, and have your
revolver ready in case I have to throw shame to the winds and yell for
help.”
It took her only a few moments to get into a house dress and comb her
ruffled hair. The comb dropped from her hand to the top of the chest
of drawers, as a loud banging at the front door resounded through the
old house. She stood close to Gene as they listened to the heavy
trampling of feet downstairs. Gene ran to the door and flung it open.
The officers of the law came up to the landing with a rush, and behind
them scurried Mrs. Bellew, in a half-buttoned wrapper and curl papers.
For all the excitement and her own nervous tension, Margot’s lips
twisted with the smile she tried to control as she saw her landlady.
Patrolmen Michael Quinlan and Shane Boyle, stood each of them nearly
six feet. Their pugnacious but kindly faces, their clean wholesome
skins, suggesting a life spent in the open, their broad blue-coated
chests, and their nightsticks, swung with just the right suggestion of
authority and force, made Margot’s room seem suddenly and
incongruously, about the safest place in New York.
Quinlan glanced sharply from Margot to Gene. His voice was as sharp as
his words.
“Speak up! What’s wrong here?”
Gene, not wishing to dominate the situation, unless Margot wished him
to, looked at her enquiringly. She nodded quickly with a smile, then
addressed Quinlan, briefly and a little crisply.
“This is _my_ room. I occupy it alone.” Slight emphasis on the last
word. “I’d had a party here. Everybody had gone home and I went to
bed. After I’d switched off the electric light, I lighted a cigarette
and threw the match on to the floor. It struck me suddenly that it was
a dangerous thing to do, so I leaned over the side of the bed to make
sure the match wasn’t still burning. As I did this, I saw a hand and
arm reach out from under the bed----”
“Sneak thief, eh?” Quinlan couldn’t wait for the end of her narrative.
“Think he’s still around here?” He made a movement to approach the
bed, but Margot stopped him with a slight gesture of her hand.
“Wait, please! Let me finish. The hand reached out to the match and
tapped the burning end of it. I was too frightened to move or make a
sound. Then the hand and arm were drawn back under the bed. I made
sure, as soon as I could control my thoughts, that I had a maniac to
deal with. I screwed up my courage and switched on the light. Nothing
happened, but I fully expected to be murdered any minute. Then I
telephoned to my friend Mr. Valery, made up a yarn about wanting him
to translate some French I was reading, and got it over to him in
French that a man--or something--was under my bed. He came right over
in five minutes. When he looked under my bed, there was nothing to be
seen.”
Painfully conscious, as she neared the end of her story, that it must
sound absurd and unconvincing to others, she threw a brightly
challenging look from one policeman to the other. Their friendly Irish
faces expressed a struggle between doubt of her sanity and amusement
at the situation. Then Boyle said bluntly:
“Sounds like a pipe dream to me, lady.”
“It’s neither a pipe dream nor a nightmare,” she said gently. Her
common-sense told her that it would be absurd to get up on her dignity
because these two unimaginative but kindly disposed policemen, showed
frank disbelief of her statements. “Look here, please!” She walked to
where the match had been smudged into the rug. “Just bend down and
take a good look at that and tell me what you both think of it.”
What they both thought of it was not evident in the scowling,
bewildered scrutiny they bent upon the rug. Then a thick, red finger
went out to touch the spot.
“Don’t please!” Margot’s sharp command caused the finger to draw back
slowly. “We may want to examine that later again,” she said more
gently. “It must not be touched by anyone.”
The officers stood erect and exchanged glances that showed an
uncertain state of mind that they were determined to conceal, but
Margot’s keen eyes saw and understood.
Said Quinlan, squaring his shoulders: “Well, Miss, what do you want us
to do?”
“Investigate thoroughly, please.” Something in her quiet assurance and
dignity went further to convince the two men, that here was something
not so easily disposed of as they had thought, stranger than even that
queer mark on the rug.
“Sure,” Quinlan said, swinging shoulders and nightstick as he
approached the bed. “Where’s that door lead to?” He indicated the one
opening upon the roof-garden.
“There’s a roof out there.” It was Gene who gave the information. He
pointed to another door. “That’s a closet, and the bathroom’s next to
this. Opens into the hall.”
Boyle walked to the door opening on the roof, and Quinlan dragged the
heavy bed aside, remarking comfortingly to Margot:
“Never a sniff or sign of a living soul’ll escape us, Miss, so don’t
you worry!”
He moved the bed out into the room, then rapped the floor with his
stick. There was no cupboard behind the bed, nor any aperture in the
wall except a small register protected by a grill through which a
mouse could scarcely have passed. He gave a scornful prod to the
mattress and struck the bed springs, just by way of not omitting
anything. Then he walked to the closet. It was a deep closet and wide,
hung with many clothes. It required a few seconds to give the closet
its due portion of attention. Quinlan turned back into the room just
as Boyle returned from his inspection of the roof and bathroom.
Quinlan stood a little awkwardly, swinging his stick. His lips were
tight shut in a sort of pursed smile, and he lowered his head a little
as he looked at Margot.
“Look here, Miss. Do ye mind telling me what business you’re in?”
Slightly taken aback, and throwing a glance at Gene to which he
responded by moving closer to her, she said:
“I’m a motion picture actress.”
Quinlan lifted his head and the pursed smile widened to good-natured
amusement.
“Say! That don’t surprise me, at all at all. You movie queens sure
like to pull anything to make a story for the papers, don’t ye now?”
His smile was ingratiating.
For the first time Margot felt angry resentment.
“I’ve given you my story, told you the absolute truth. I _saw_ a hand
put out that match. Just because the case is full of mystery is no
reason to insult my intelligence.”