“But you can’t stay in this house. It’s too cold.”
“You intended to stay here. If you can stand it, I can.”
She made haste to dump the remaining papers on the fire, then locked up the Haggart letters in the office desk. With the key still in one hand, she linked the other through Dean’s arm. “You were good to come. I do need you.”
But Dean scarcely heard. He was listening to the hammering of his thoughts, like the hammering of the waters against the rocks…
The radium of his watch showed a few minutes after one when he suddenly awoke. It was as if something pulled him upright. The high-ceilinged bedroom had an arctic chill. He tugged on his dressing gown and hurried over to close the window.
But with one hand on the sill, he paused. A woman was sobbing, “No—no, I tell you. I won’t! You can’t make me do it.” The answer came too low to hear, yet he recognized a man’s rage. The voices came from the porch.
In a stream of moonlight, as he started for the door, Dean noticed the covers of the bed next to his pulled to the pillow and humped to give the appearance of someone snuggled underneath. He wondered when Gladys had stolen out and how she had managed to get in touch with the man who was downstairs. Or had it all been planned in advance? Had the man—it could be nobody but Haggart—expected to spend the night here?
The stairwell was dark and the stairs uncarpeted. Dean had to feel his way. He must have been overheard for as his foot touched the last step Gladys came in.
Before the flashlight in her hand turned full on him, he saw that she had flung a tweed topcoat over her lacy nightgown. He saw, too, that she was shivering.
“I wasn’t asleep and I heard a noise down here,” she explained. “But it’s all right. There isn’t anybody.”
“There was.” Dean found the switch and lights blazed on. Her face was stricken. “Is Barclay Haggart on his way down the drive now? Don’t lie to me any more. It’s no use. I heard you talking to him.”
She asked, “What did you hear?”
“You were refusing something he wanted you to do, Gladys; crying that you wouldn’t.”
She turned to go up the stairs, but he blocked the way. She sat down, the tweed coat hugged around her. “I’m so cold. Won’t you go up to our room?”
“You weren’t too cold outside when you were with Haggart. Are you in love with him?”
“I hate him.” She began to sob again, but Dean did not touch her. “He’s tortured me for years.”
“What does he want that you refused?”
“He wants me to divorce you and get a big settlement so we can be married.”
“What’s in those letters you’d have destroyed if I hadn’t come in? Are they love letters, Gladys?”
“No. No!”
“But you were in love with Haggart once and the affair resulted in terrific fear of him. Isn’t that so?” She sat looking up at him. He felt again she was searching for some way to avoid a direct answer. “Don’t try to lie. I won’t let you.”
She shook her head. “No, I won’t lie. I should have told you, I suppose. I was sixteen and I’d never been away from this place, Dean. You see how it was, don’t you? He came to my room one night——” She stopped. “I’d never known any other man.”
“And you’ve been lovers ever since.”
“No—I swear!—please believe me. He wouldn’t let go, but it wasn’t for myself. Money—that’s all he cares about. I wouldn’t let you give me any in my name because I was afraid he’d never leave me alone.”
“You hated him and this place. You always wanted to get out.”
“Yes, yes.”
“That was why you begged Pauline to take you with us, wasn’t it?” The mention of Pauline caught her off guard. She stiffened, and although her eyes were wet, they went green as he had seen them under stress. Should he go on; find out all there was to know? Wynn’s statement: “From the day Gladys came to take care of Mother, she meant to marry you.” An ambitious woman determined to change the color of her drab and disillusioned life, was this the woman he had married? This woman, his wife, was she completely unknown to him?
Events from the day she entered his house passed swiftly. Kaleidoscopically. He brushed a hand across his eyes as if the gesture could banish the vision. At last he was seeing Pauline’s death as Wynn saw it, and he knew how a drowning man felt.
Gladys was pleading that long before they met she had broken with Barclay Haggart.
He halted her with, “Was the scheme to marry me yours alone, or did this fellow have something to do with it? Is that his hold on you?”
“Dean, don’t say such frightful things. I love you.”
She had flung out her hands and he was staring down at them. Sculptured, muscular, unmarred as marble and—suddenly his lips found the word “ruthless” and said it aloud. Her eyes followed his. That was why she did not go on. Neither spoke. It was as if those hands held a key less tangible yet more real than the key which had locked up the letters.
“What did Haggart instruct you to do when you came to live with us?” Dean pursued.
“Nothing, nothing! Why do you suspect me?”
“If what I suspect is true,” he said very low, backing away, “if it’s halfway true, I could kill you here and now.”
Her answer came, and there was no life in it. None at all. “I almost wish you would.”
* * *
—
It was unbelievable that he could return to Rockland with Gladys and take up the daily routine as if nothing had blasted their life.
Actually, nothing cataclysmic had occurred except in his own mind. And looking back, it became clear that it had been happening ever since Wynn planted the first seeds. Except that he went far beyond the spot where Wynn had stopped; far beyond the belief that Gladys had goaded Pauline to suicide.
Useless to tell himself his nerves were shot to pieces. Pauline had been on the road to recovery; Pauline’s wish had been realized, she was getting better. Health, the possibility of being with the man she loved—his wife again! No, there was no motive for suicide. None whatever.
All the physical aspects of the household at Rockland remained those of order and calm. Outwardly, Gladys and himself, husband and wife, devoted as usual. But he made certain they were together only when others were present. He worked late in his study. He slept—when he slept—on the couch in his dressing room. He told the servants he was not feeling well and preferred not to disturb Mrs. Steward. He became a master of subterfuge. And he wondered what the finish would be.
He wondered too if Gladys had any idea of the nightmare he lived in. When she begged him to take her in his arms, did she guess why he could not bear to touch her? Did she realize he could not look at her hands? Whenever he did, it was to picture them seizing Pauline’s frail body in the darkness of night…
If the thing he was convinced of should ever come to light, what would Cara’s future be? Cara knew something was wrong. He could feel her studying him anxiously when she thought he was engrossed in a newspaper or book.
Then came Ned’s final leave before going to parts unknown. With Max Conrick, he was lunching one Saturday at Rockland and he broke the news in his casual way. “This is s’long, I guess, for a while, folks.” He glanced around the table before his eyes rested upon Cara.
“When, Ned?”
He shrugged. “Can’t say, baby.”
Cara gulped hard before words came. “You’re taking it like a—a soldier.”
Dean spoke up. “Why don’t you two see a parson before Ned goes?”
“I’ve proposed to him a dozen times.” Cara protested. “I’m just a washout. He won’t have me.”
Ned’s lips tightened. Then he blurted out, “I’d be a bum to tie her up with a guy who may not come back.”
“Time is of the essence in l
ove as in everything else today,” answered Max.
Dean smiled. “Max is right. I want Cara happy. You’re her happiness, Ned. You should be together while you can.”
Ned bent to the girl beside him. “Hello, my bride,” he said.
“We’ll have the wedding in front of the window, the exact spot where Dean and I were married,” Gladys suggested. “That would be perfect, wouldn’t it, Dean?”
He did not answer but looked at Cara’s shining eyes, as she left the room with Ned. At last he had found escape for the child.
A few minutes later, the maid announced a visitor. She whispered the name to Gladys, but Dean did not need to be told. “If Barclay Haggart is calling”—he tried to give no hint of the sickness inside him—“I suggest that you introduce him to Max and me.”
Gladys was on her way out. “Yes, of course. He’s been wanting to meet you.”
“Why the excitement over Barclay Haggart?” Max inquired when they were alone in the study. “Gladys looks as though she were going to her execution.”
“Not hers,” Dean corrected. “Not hers, Max. Mine.”
Max waited. It was his habit to wait for confidences.
Dean said in a drained voice, “You probably know I’ve been holding back information you ought to have.”
“I do. You’ve looked like hell for weeks.”
“I’m living with an obsession, Max. You’ve got to cure me or it will kill me. I believe my wife is a murderess.”
Max tapped a steady tattoo on the arm of his chair. “So do I,” came finally.
Dean met the sympathetic gaze of the eyes that missed little. He might have known Max would be ahead of him. “How?” he asked.
“I credited every word that boy of yours told us. It was my business to appear not to. I had a bigger job than getting at the truth. I had to save your son for you.”
“How much do you know?”
“Suppose you tell me.”
The steady tattoo kept up as Dean related the history of his Adirondack trip. “The man with her now has knowledge of something that terrifies Gladys,” he ended. “That’s my reason for believing her guilt. But I can’t prove it, even to myself.”
“If I could prove it, would you find it possible to forgive me? Or do you still love her too much?”
“I think, Max, there’s only one woman I ever loved. Pauline.”
“I had an idea that was the case. You understand the science of chemistry, old man. My science is the chemistry of men and women.”
They waited a long time for Gladys. When she finally came in, she asked why they were sitting in the dark. Her voice sounded weary and hoarse. She switched on the lamps.
Dean inquired, “Where is Haggart?”
“Barclay apologizes. He had to get back to New York. Will Ned and Cara be in to dinner?”
Dean almost wished Max were not here and the thing could go unsolved. Gladys looked so frightened. “They’ve gone to see Ned’s mother. Max will stay.”
“I’ll tell cook.”
Max inquired. “What bad news did Mr. Haggart bring you, Gladys?”
“Why do you ask?”
“Come over here, my dear.” He pulled a chair so that, seated, she had to look directly up at him. “You don’t have to hold back anything. I know all there is to know about you and Barclay Haggart. He’s blackmailing you.”
“Did you tell him, Dean?” Her voice shook.
“I have ways of finding out,” Max went on. “You were corresponding with Haggart all the years you were with Pauline. Is he in possession of a letter from you telling exactly how Pauline died?”
“Why should I write him about that? It was all in the papers.”
“But suppose what, you told him wouldn’t look well in the papers. He’d be able to keep on blackmailing you.”
“He has nothing, I tell you.” She turned to Dean. “Don’t let him ask me any more questions. I know you hate me. But don’t let him do this to me. I’m so tired.”
“I want to help you, my dear,” Max said. “Surely if this fellow Haggart is making your life miserable we ought to get after him. The letter he has, you’ve been trying to get away from him, haven’t you? And his price isn’t money alone. It’s yourself.”
“You did tell him, Dean.”
“Yes, I told him. I had to.”
“Why did you have to tell him?”
“Because we can’t go on like this. There’s something horrible between us. Ever since Wynn——”
“Don’t!” She jumped up. “Don’t say it. I can’t bear any more.” Dean reached out as he might have reached to drag her away from oncoming wheels, for Max Conrick’s eyes had the eager tenacity that marked them in court when he cornered a witness. Gladys clung to Dean’s hand. “I love you. That’s my punishment. I love you and you hate me.”
“If you love him that much, help clear this up, Gladys. Help us get hold of that letter Haggart keeps on his person. Where can the police find him in New York?”
Like her hands, her eyes had been clinging to Dean. Now they slid away. But not quickly enough. He caught the swift change from gray to green that told him so much more than words or touch. At last he was able to interpret its meaning. Desperation. The glazed fright of a cornered criminal.
She backed to the shadows. “I don’t know where he is.”
“I didn’t imagine you’d tell us.” Max went to her. “Why won’t you?”
“I tell you. I haven’t any idea where Barclay is. There’s no use calling in the police.”
“You must leave that decision to me.”
“No, no.”
“But why, my dear? Why attempt to protect this man who threatens you?”
“Oh, won’t you leave me alone?”
“Max, let her alone,” Dean pleaded. “It’s too much——”
But Max apparently did not hear. There might have been no one else in the room, only the woman and himself, the criminal and the law. “We don’t need you, Gladys, to locate Haggart. We’ll catch him upstate. We’ll get him at home.”
She slumped down in a chair and bent almost double. “What do you think that letter would prove?”
“That Pauline Steward was murdered. Not psychologically, mind you, but cold-bloodedly and premeditatedly. That she was getting well, and all the plans you and Haggart made were being defeated. That one night she wasn’t sleeping well and you told her to go on the balcony for fresh air. Then you stole out behind her and lifted her in those strong, pretty hands of yours and let her fall.”
Gladys shivered. She held her hands under the lamp and examined them as if they were no part of her. “Is that why you won’t let them touch you, Dean?” she said. “Do you believe what he says?”
“Yes. I’m afraid I do.”
“You’re wrong,” she whispered. “I used to beg her not to go out on the balcony. I used to fear the very thing that happened.”
“You mean fear of the temptation to kill her?” Max leaned closer.
She shivered again. “Barclay said it would be so easy. From the minute he spoke of it, every time she went out there, I thought: He’s right and it could never be proved.”
“That,” said Max, “is the common belief of crime.”
“But he was right. Even though you force a confession from me, it could never be proved. You know that too, Dean. Only—I’d have to go back to Barclay. I could never stay here, could I?”
“No,” said Dean. “You must leave here.”
Max moved to the desk and picked up the telephone. “Give me New York——” he began.
“Not yet, Max!” Dean strode across the room. “We’ve got to talk it over first. There’s too much to consider. Cara—think what finding this out will do to her. Don’t call in the police. Not yet.”
“It’s not our job to pl
ay God. Not for your peace of mind, Dean, or Cara’s happiness. This thing is bigger than either of you. And my job is to see justice done.” But Max made no further move to put through his call. He looked past Dean toward the picture window. He was leaning forward as if listening for something. It came at last—a thud, a splash.
Dean wheeled around. The door was shut, and Gladys was gone.
Max hung up the telephone. “It’s what I expected she might do.”
There came only the rhythmic sound of waves against the rocks.
The Ghost of John Holling
EDGAR WALLACE
THE STORY
Original publication: The Saturday Evening Post, March 8, 1924; first collected in The Steward (London, Collins, 1932)
DURING THE HEIGHT OF HIS POPULARITY in the 1920s as the most successful thriller writer who ever lived, Richard Horatio Edgar Wallace (1875–1932) is reputed to have been the author of one of every four books sold in England. After dropping out of school at an early age, he joined the army and was sent to South Africa, where he wrote war poems and later worked as a journalist during the Boer War. Returning to England with a desire to write fiction, he self-published The Four Just Men (1905), a financial disaster, but went on to produce more than 170 books and 18 plays, earning him a fortune—reportedly more than a quarter of a million dollars a year during the last decade of his life, but his extravagant lifestyle left his estate deeply in debt when he died.
In “The Ghost of John Holling,” a series of thefts aboard an ocean liner seem to occur only when one of the stewards sees the ghost of a man whose throat had been slit on an earlier cruise.
THE FILM
Title: Mystery Liner, 1934
Studio: Monogram Pictures (US), Pathé (UK)
Director: William Nigh
Screenwriter: Wellyn Totman
Producer: Paul Malvern
THE CAST
• Noah Beery (Captain John Holling)
• Astrid Allwyn (Lila Kane)
The Big Book of Reel Murders Page 181