The haunting hand
Quinlan had probably heard of insulting a good many things in the
course of his career, but to insult someone’s ‘intelligence’ was a new
one on him, evidently. He frowned, then smiled sheepishly.
“Sure, I meant no harm, Miss. Now, just tell me once more, quiet like.
You were scared out of your boots, as you might say. Then you phoned
this young man.” He glanced at Gene. “Now, did you have to get out of
bed to let him in?”
“No. The door was unlocked. He walked right in.”
“Humph!” Quinlan’s brain found this almost too easy. His smile
widened. “Sure, don’t you see, Miss, didn’t it strike you at all, that
whoever was under that bed could have crawled to the hall door or the
door leadin’ to the roof, and made his get-a-way?”
“There was a streak of light from a street lamp, coming through that
door.” She pointed to the roof-garden exit. “It made a faint shaft of
light across the room. I could have seen anything moving over by that
door.”
“But maybe now, you weren’t lookin’ in that direction all the time.
And it was black, wasn’t it, at this end of the room?” Margot nodded.
“Well, he could have got to the hall door easy. Too dark to see him,
and your heart, likely as not, Miss, was beating too loud for you to
_hear_ him open and shut the door.”
For a moment Margot was staggered by the apparent simplicity of the
explanation. Then once more she knew beyond all doubt, that,
fear-distraught as she had been during those awful minutes,
nevertheless her hearing had been made more acute by her very fear,
and she could not have failed to hear the slightest movement in the
room. Before she could reply to Quinlan, Mrs. Bellew who had been
standing all this time, too overcome by astonishment and fear and
Heaven knew what other mixed emotions, to do anything but stare
open-mouthed and listen spellbound, suddenly broke forth.
“Oh, my God, my God!” She was almost hysterical from cumulative fear.
“That thief or that crazy man or whatever it is, is roaming through my
house. I know he is! He’s hiding in some empty room. Find him, oh my
God, find him!”
Margot went quickly to her distraught landlady and put a hand on her
arm.
“Don’t get excited,” she said gently. “If there’s anything--I mean
anybody--roaming around in the house, these officers will find him.
I’ll see to that. So don’t you worry, my dear.”
Mrs. Bellew’s mouth quivered, and tears came into her eyes.
“I’m that nervous,” she said tremulously. “What with that girl
disappearing the way she did, and that man Murchison, and now this
maniac loose in my house, I’m terribly upset, Miss Anstruther.”
Quinlan had heard what she said. He went closer to her.
“What’s that you said about a girl disappearing and a man?”
Margot, realizing that these other happenings, which might or might
not have bearing on her own experience, would only confuse the present
issue for Quinlan, said quickly:
“Oh, it’s got nothing whatever to do with what happened to me
to-night. A girl lodger here some months ago, walked out suddenly and
never came back, that’s all. And a man living up stairs disappeared at
the same time.” Her smile at Quinlan was deliberately calculated to
mislead him, and it succeeded. He gave a knowing smile and
comprehending nod.
“Sure! I get you!” His good-nature was reinforced by the beautiful
young lady’s confiding manner.
Mrs. Bellew was too self-centered and upset to observe details. She
had not caught Margot’s smile nor the subtle suggestion in her words,
but Gene, delighted at the quick wit of this girl whom he adored,
swallowed a laugh with difficulty.
Margot turned more seriously to Quinlan.
“Now, please Officer, search the house thoroughly. But whatever you
do, don’t leave _this_ room unguarded. I swear to you that I saw a
hand and arm creep out from under that bed and put out the match. And
I _know_--” she raised her hand with a solemn gesture, almost as if
taking an oath, “I am as sure as I am that I’m alive, that whatever
was under my bed _didn’t_ get as far as the door.”
Quinlan’s shrewd look of questioning doubt grew more serious. He
turned to Boyle.
“You stick here till I get back. After we’re all out, just switch off
the light. That’ll bring action if there’s anything round this
neighborhood. Here, give me a hand with the bed.”
They shoved the bed back into place, then Quinlan, again swinging his
stick and his shoulders, went to the hall door.
“Come on, you people. Better find somewheres else to sleep till
mornin’, Miss Anstrooter.” He got the name out with difficulty.
Margot, Gene and Mrs. Bellew went downstairs and waited in the dimly
lighted front hall. From time to time they caught the chittering
voices of lodgers who were being disturbed by Quinlan’s search.
Finally he joined them below, remarking that he had still to take a
look at the front and back parlors. He struck the parlor door with his
stick. The blow against the heavy wood resounded in the silent house.
“Not but what he’d have ducked for the street, right off, and----”
His sentence was never completed. A roar of sheer terror thundered
through the house. Mrs. Bellew gave a scream, and Margot seized Gene’s
arm.
“Mother Mary!” Quinlan almost whispered the words, and his eyes
bulged.
The door of Margot’s room, which could be seen from the foot of the
stairs, burst open, and Boyle dashed down the stairs, face ghastly
white and eyes staring. He seemed oblivious of the four figures in the
hall, and made a spring for the front door. Quinlan threw out his arm
and caught him.
“For the love of God, what’s eatin’ ye?”
“The hand! The hand!” Boyle was beyond lucid speech.
“_What_ hand?” Quinlan shook him and shouted at him.
“The hand from under the bed!”
“You saw it too?” Margot seized Boyle’s arm with trembling fingers.
Her flesh was cold and tingling.
Boyle crossed himself. He spoke in a choked undertone.
“Standin’ there--in the dark--the Holy Saints take witness--it came
out--from under the bed--and doused a flame on the rug!”
CHAPTER IV.
MOUNTING MYSTERY
Dawn streaked the eastern sky with orange and gold. A crispness in
the air made Margot draw her cape closer about her. She and Gene had
spent the intervening hour in Mrs. Bellew’s basement room, and now
they stood on her own roof-garden, reveling in fresh air after the
stuffy atmosphere below, and watching the beauty of the dawn through
an open space between two houses to the east of them.
Margot had more than a stuffy atmosphere to get rid of. She wanted,
for a brief moment, to shake off the memory of nerve-racking hours,
first in the room with the creature of the hand and arm, and, since
Boyle’s sensational climax, the bored depression of listening
patiently to Mrs. Bellew’s wailings, and warnings of still more
trouble to come. The landlady could conceive of no human agency in the
appearance of the ghostly hand and arm. No speculation as to human
motives or mystery were of interest to her. The only explanation that
seemed to fit the case for Mrs. Bellew, was a spiritual one. In plain
simple vernacular, the house was “haunted,” and would continue to be
haunted, therefore bad luck would attend it and her. She had a
ten-year lease and the law would not release her because of ghostly
visitations. It was equally certain that no tenants would remain with
her once the truth should become known.
Margot had always been interested in psychic phenomena, and was too
open-minded to be skeptical as regards any psychic manifestation. But
in this instance she stuck to her belief that the amazing hand
belonged to the body of a living--a sinister--human criminal.
Quinlan and Boyle were at this moment prowling heavily about Margot’s
room, and wrangling as to whether anyone had seen anything come out
from under the bed. They had reported to the station house by
telephone, after Boyle had steadied his shaken nerves, and had been
ordered to remain where they were and get to the bottom of the matter
if possible.
Margot turned from the narrowed but close view of the East River,
glistening in the first sun-rays of early morning, and motioned to
Gene to listen to the policemen inside the room.
“Listen to them, Gene! They’re awfully amusing.”
Argument and rehearsal of the night’s drama, ended each time with
something like this:
“The young lady maybe was dreaming, as you say, Quinlan, and maybe she
_wasn’t_ dreaming. All _I_ know about it is that _I_ seen it with me
mortal--me wakin’--eyes,--a thin, white hand it was,--the hand of a
ghost, God have mercy on us!”
“Ghosts!” Margot gave a low chuckle as she heard the disgust and scorn
in Quinlan’s voice. “Ghosts, is it? Ain’t ye ashamed to have such a
heathen thought!”
“Heathen, am I? Well, tell me this, if ye’re so smart ye are! The
young lady saw a hand put out a match she had dropped on the floor.
The light she saw was a match burning. Get that don’t ye? How about
the flame of light I seen with me own eyes? It wasn’t a match, I’ll
tell ye that, for I hadn’t lighted no match, and that ye know as well
as I do.”
Quinlan’s reply was a grunt that scorned further argument. Margot’s
smile faded as she turned serious eyes to Gene.
“That’s just it, Gene! Even that ignorant man in there, sees something
there that can’t be explained by ordinary theories. That’s what would
make almost any intelligent person feel sure that the mystery has a
psychic meaning. But nevertheless, I’m sure it’s something else.”
“See here, Margot darling. Don’t be angry with me if I say--what it’s
easier to say in the cold light of morning--that you _may_ have had a
sort of waking dream--a realistic staging of your imagination which
fooled you into thinking that--well, that it wasn’t your imagination
at all. I happen to know that such things have occurred even to
unimaginative persons.”
“All right, old dear, granted, for the sake of argument.” Her smile
accepted his skepticism without the resentment she had felt a few
hours before. “And granting that, of course it’s quite simple to
explain what Boyle experienced as the fevered imagination of a
superstitious Irishman. But there still remains the smudge on the rug.
You can’t suppose that I got out of bed, terrorized as I was, before
you got there, and it is certain that neither of us made that mark
_after_ your arrival.”
“Dearest, that match might have fallen there before you went to bed,
and been stepped on by you, unobserved.”
“Now, see here, Gene! I know that ‘evening thoughts grow cold at
night,’ to quote some philosopher, or, to paraphrase him, midnight
thoughts freeze up entirely before daylight. Before you called the
police you were ready to concede that I wasn’t _imagining_ things. And
you agreed to help me get to the bottom of what I consider a
mystery--a human mystery, not a psychic one. Now, are you going back
on your offer?”
“Absolutely not! I’ll do anything you want, and not express a doubt to
anyone.”
“Righto! Then stop expressing them to me, from now on. And now let’s
go out and rustle some breakfast. After I’ve braced up with some
strong coffee I’ll come back here and dress to go to the studio.”
“And by the way,” she added, “if you get to the shop before me, don’t
you breathe a word to anyone! It’s _my_ story and I want the fun of
telling it.”
When Margot returned to her room a half hour later, she found Quinlan
a trifle dubious about leaving her alone in the room. She told him
that she had to dress for the day--bathe, etc.--and asked them to wait
on the landing, if they absolutely wouldn’t go down stairs.
Daylight--sunlight--made of her room so cheerful and normal, even so
commonplace a setting--so absurd a setting for mystery and mystic
marauders--that she laughed at the notion of keeping two policemen