Stephens was brushing his teeth when the front door bell rang three times, swiftly. As Stephens headed toward the front hall, a key fumbled in the lock. The door swung open and Mistra Lanett slipped in. She was breathing hard. She banged the door shut, and slammed home the bolt. She faced Stephens.
“I couldn’t wait,” she gasped. “They’re after me. Turn out the lights, bolt the back door, and the patio doors, and phone the police.”
He must have been too slow for her. Because she brushed past him, and he heard her in the kitchen. The sound of the bolt clicking came very clear and distinct. And it was that which startled Stephens into action. He bolted the patio door of his bedroom and of the adjoining den. He met the young woman coming out of the second bedroom. She whisked past him and began to turn out lights. In less than a minute, with his help, they were in darkness. And still she was one mental jump ahead of him. In the blackness he could hear her slowly dialing a number. There was silence.
“There’s no answer.” Her voice was strained. “And the line seems to be dead. They’ve cut it.”
A prolonged pause. Finally, very softly:
“I wonder if you would mind attending me. I’ve got a needle beam burn in my side and—and it’s hurting me.”
II
In the intense darkness of the living room, Allison Stephens groped his way to the chesterfield. Needle beam! he was thinking, vaguely. What could that mean? “Where are you?” he asked.
“I’m lying down.” The answer was low-toned.
Stephens knelt on the floor beside her. The strain of the moment was on him. The blackness made the affair nightmarish. He had a mind-picture of men outside on the verge of breaking in.
Abruptly, that changed him. He had been feeling the reluctance again, the unwillingness to be mixed up in something that was not his business. All in a flash, his horror yielded to a blinding, furious anger.
He remembered his Nambu. He jumped to his feet and raced into his bedroom. The Lüger-like grip of the Japanese souvenir braced him. It was the seven bullet variety, a very effective automatic pistol. He hurried back to the living room and knelt beside Mistra Lanett again.
He felt the change inside him now, the alertness, the willingness to commit himself; the grim determination to see the incident through.
“Where were you hit?”
“My side.”
It was a whisper, the information not very helpful in that darkness. The fact that she could talk at all made him feel better. He recalled how she had raced around the house. Fear must have stimulated her, of course. Perhaps her present weakness was only reaction.
“Think I could carry you to the housekeeper’s room?” he asked. “Her window overlooks a ravine. They’d need a ladder to climb up to it. We could turn the light on.”
He didn’t wait for her answer. He fumbled over her body in the darkness, hesitated as he touched her bare thigh—her dress must have pulled up—then swiftly slid one hand under her knees, the other around her shoulder.
“Hang on,” he said encouragingly.
She weighed less than he had thought. He put her down on the bed, and clicked on the light As he turned from the switch, he saw a thin trail of blood running from the door to the bed. She looked very pale as Stephens started to unbutton her blouse. She was wearing a mink coat over a gray suit, with a white blouse under the jacket The lower end of the blouse was soaked with blood. It had already stained her skirt and there was a red, sticky streak on the lining of her fur coat.
Stephens decided against removing the outer clothing, since it would require her to sit up. He unbuttoned the jacket and the blouse; and then fumbled his way to the kitchen for a knife. With its sharp joint he penetrated the blank wall that was her slip. Underneath was the wound.
It took a minute to get hot water, and several minutes to wash away the covering of blood. The bullet had evidently passed through the flesh just under the surface. Strangely, both the entrance and the exit, which were about four inches apart, were cauterized as if by heat, and the wound was bleeding thinly from within. Examining it, Stephens doubted if she had lost much more than a few tablespoonfuls.
He couldn’t feel alarmed about it. He had seen men almost literally floating in their own blood without dying. And this was nothing. He saw that the young woman was bending forward, peering at the damaged flesh. Her face took on an expression of annoyance. Then she lay back.
“I’ll be damned!” she said in disgust. “It’s practically a miss. To think that I was scared stiff.”
Stephens said, “I’ll get a bandage.”
He used several layers of surgical gauze held in place by adhesive tape. He worked with a sense of urgency, holding his breath for long intervals so that it wouldn’t interfere with his hearing. But when at last he stepped back to survey his handiwork, there was still not a sound from the night outside. Stephens looked down at the woman tensely.
“What’s the matter?” he said. “Why aren’t they doing anything?”
She was lying back, on the pillow. She studied him, a faint frown creasing her cheeks. “I’m twice in your debt now,” she said.
Stephens was not interested in debts. “What do you think they’ll do?” he asked.
This time she considered his question. She said finally:
“It all depends on who else is out there besides Cahunja.” She smiled grimly. “I know Cahunja is among them because he’s the only one who would work himself into a mood to fire at me. But where his own skin is concerned he’s extremely cautious. However, if Tezlacodanal is with him they won’t give up once they have started. They’re all afraid of Tezla, who is one of the damnedest little vipers that ever lived.”
She smiled up at him, with mock sweetness. “Does that answer your question?”
Stephens scarcely heard. His mind was on the danger, not the words that described it. It seemed to him that, if there had been more than one or two, surely they would by this time have tried to enter the house. He thought about that for a moment, with narrowed eyes; and then he went out into the hall.
“I’ll be right back,” he called over his shoulder.
He headed for the front door, and stood peering through the glass into the darkness. The sky was still clouded; the night silent. He could see nothing and no one. He made the rounds of the inside of the house, examining the catches on the windows, and testing the bolts on the doors. Everything was in place. Partially relieved, he returned to the housekeeper’s room.
The young women opened her eyes and smiled at him wearily. But she made no comment.
Stephens said, “My room is at the end of the hall. I’ll leave the door open, and I’ll try to stay awake.”
She nodded, but did not speak. He walked to his bedroom, undressed, and put on his pajamas. Then he turned out the light. He lay for a while, gun near his hand. There was no sound from the night, outside or in. He dozed, then awakened, and dozed and again awakened. The third time he drifted off, he was brought back by the woman’s voice from his door, saying, “Mr. Stephens.”
Stephens stirred. “Yes?” he said sleepily. Then he sat up startled. “Anything wrong?”
He could see her vaguely outlined figure approach the bed. “I’ve come to pay my debt,” she said, “in the way I’ve discovered men prefer.” Her laugh came softly out of the darkness.
She was on the bed before he could think to say anything. Involuntarily, Stephens put his hand out. His fingers touched her nude body. He drew back, hastily.
“Don’t be frightened,” she whispered. “You may make love to me. Just be careful of my side—and of my back, where they whipped me.”
Stephens said, “This is not necessary, you know. You owe me nothing.”
She was silent for a moment. Then: “Are you rejecting me? I thought you were a man. Am I mistaken?”
It was, Stephens realized, exactly the right tone for her to have adopted with him. He was stung. He spoke no more. The fact was, he considered himself a first-class lover, and
it was her casual attitude that he set about breaking down by showing her just how well he could satisfy a woman sexually.
She had a surprisingly strong body. She held him almost as tightly as he held her. When it was all over, she lay for a few moments beside him. Then she pulled away, and got off the bed. He saw her shadowed figure go over to the door. There she paused.
“I can’t quite decide,” she said, “who got the most out of that. But I’m sure we’re even.” She added, “Please don’t assume in future that this act of intimacy makes us friends. Good night.”
“Good night,” said Stephens.
He felt deliciously sleepy, and quite content with what fate had delivered to him. Still, he’d better make an effort to remain awake. He climbed out of bed, and, gun in hand, went into the living room. He spent the rest of the night on the lounge, sitting up. He dozed many times, but it was dawn before he fell into a deep sleep.
Stephens woke to the realization that it was broad daylight. He glanced at his watch; it showed five after one. He sat up with a sigh, and then tiptoed along the hall to his own bedroom. As he passed the housekeeper’s room, he noticed the door was closed. He had left it slightly ajar.
It stopped him short. He knocked. No answer. He knocked again, then tried the knob. The door was unlocked, and the room was empty.
He stood there for a moment, annoyed at the realization that he felt rather let down. It was almost as if he had enjoyed the episode, and yet, as he remembered it, he had been tense and grim all the time, even in the moments when he was putting on his best show of being relaxed.
Perhaps it was the woman: Once, in San Francisco, he had had a casual affair with a girl as beautiful as Mistra Lanett. That was a long way back now. Still, these days he looked for more in a woman than good looks. It was hard to imagine himself falling for a stranger.
He guessed then that he pitied her. She was so obviously in a state of distraction. Hunted, she herself had sought refuge with a stranger. And yet, there seemed little doubt of her courage. Even as she was being whipped, with no apparent hope of rescue, she had talked back to her captors.
Frowning, Stephens unlocked the front door, and went outside. The sun was shining, and he could hear the sea a few hundred yards away. The bungalow was a Tannahill property, set back from the coast highway. It was isolated from other nearby residences by a series of low hills; it had a heated swimming pool, a three-car garage and four bedrooms, each with private bath. He had rented the place to himself for sixty-five dollars a month.
For a time he had felt guilty about that, even though it was Peeley’s suggestion. Gradually, however, he had come to regard it as part and parcel of the pleasant existence that he had enjoyed ever since becoming the Tannahill agent.
He walked now along the driveway till he saw the tire tracks, where a car had backed off the pavement, and turned around. It gave him satisfaction to be able to guess from the. placing of front and rear wheel markings that the car had been a big one, possibly a Cadillac or a Lincoln.
He returned to the front of the house, and peered up at the telephone wires, where they came in from the highway. Presently, he traced them down the side of the house.
They had been cut just above ground level. He’d have to call the phone company as soon as he got downtown, and report the vandalism. He would have liked to phone Tannahill, but that also would have to wait.
He slipped out of his dressing gown and pajamas, and took a running dive into the pool which was just outside the living room patio door. The water was chilly, and he headed hurriedly back to the steps. He was climbing out when he saw the face staring up at him from the depths.
Just for an instant the shock was terrific. For that one moment he thought it was a body. And then he reached down into the green blur of water—and had the mask.
It was thin and sticky, and threatened to come apart in his fingers. He drew it gingerly out of the water, and laid it on the concrete. It seemed to be made of a very thin, filmy substance, but that was not what amazed him.
The thing had recognizable features. They were slightly blurred at the edges, where the water had damaged them. But there was no doubt who they looked like.
It was the face of the man who had prevented Tezla from knifing him.
Stephens left the mask on the concrete, dressed, and, shortly before two, started for his office. For some time he had been remembering that Mistra’s purse was there. He hadn’t really examined it thoroughly the night before, and it was possible her address was in it.
It was time for some explanations. He’d have to try again to get in touch with Tannahill, but, entirely apart from that, the problem of the “Indian worshippers” who talked of atomic war, whipped their own members, and used weapons without mercy, had to be forced out into the open.
First, Mistra. As a hunted member of the group, she was a key to the mystery.
Fifteen minutes later he had the contents of her purse spread out on his desk. A cigarette case, a change purse, a billfold, keys, a cardcase, an expensive handkerchief, and a small cloth folder. He examined them in that order, becoming progressively more disappointed. None of the articles was even initialed.
He was unwrapping the cloth folder when a thought struck him. No lipstick or powder, no make-up of any kind. The reason seemed obvious when he finished opening the cloth folder. Inside was a mask of a woman’s face. It looked surprisingly natural, but unlike anyone he had ever known. Stephens stared at it, and felt the color drain from his cheeks. He thought weakly: What the hell is going on here?
He calmed, and examined the mask. It was semi-transparent, and extremely thin.
Stephens groaned. The trouble was he didn’t know enough to decide what this meant and what he ought to do. It was too soon to draw any final conclusions. He needed more information, and he needed it quickly. Events were forcing the issue. There was still the fact of the torture and attempted murder of Mistra—
The shocking reality of that directed his next action. For some minutes he had been increasingly aware that elsewhere in this very building was another possible source of information. Now, without hesitation, he went out of his own deserted office and along the corridor to the Mexican Import Company.
The door was locked. He let himself in with his passkey, and pulled up the shades. Everything looked unchanged. The stone figures proved to be clay on closer examination, which meant that they were probably hollow. He lifted one as a test. It was heavier than he expected. He was about to replace it when he saw that an electric cord ran from under it.
The cord was plugged into a floor socket.
Stephens felt quite blank. He was only mildly curious. He disconnected the cord, and eased the figure over on its side.
The wire disappeared into a tiny hole in the clay. It was impossible to see what was inside, or what might be the purpose of the electrical connection. He replaced the figure, leaving it just about as he had found it—and turned his attention to the desk.
The drawers were locked. But one of the keys he had taken from Mistra’s purse unlocked them. Inside were bills, invoice forms, account books, a file of letters that began with some variation of: “Dear Sir: We are shipping you art objects to the value of—”, another file of letters on copy paper which were mostly acknowledgements of receipt of the shipments, or “Herewith find our check,” and, finally, a third file in which were cartage forms on which were printed the addresses of individuals to whom the “art objects’’ had been sold. Most of the letterheads had Mexican date-lines.
Stephens counted the name “Waldorf Arms” twenty-seven times before he admitted to himself that he had his clue. He had seen the place several times. It was a five story apartment building in a good district, rather oddly constructed, as he recalled it and from all accounts very exclusive.
It was annoying that none of the forms contained a name, but at least he could write down some of the addresses given, and check later to see who lived at them.
He wrote down an eve
n dozen.
Back in his own office, he remembered Tannahill, and phoned the Grand House. His call was answered almost immediately by a gruff voice: “Who’s speakin’?”
Stephens gave his name, startled by the roughness of the other’s tone. Could this be the Tannahill heir? The man at the other end said:
“Oh, the lawyer! Tannahill ain’t here, Mr. Stephens. I’m the police guard, Sergeant Gray—the only one around here except for the electricians, and they just come. You heard about the murder, huh?”
“Yes.”
“Well, Mr. Tannahill’s gone down to the courthouse to talk to Mr. Howland about it.”
Stephens suppressed an exclamation. He had a sharp conviction that Tannahill would not appreciate having to do things like that on his own. Hastily, he thanked the officer, and broke the connection.
A few minutes later, he was on his way to the district attorney’s office.
III
As Stephens entered the deserted foyer of the courthouse, he heard the first faint sounds of merriment from somewhere in the building. It was not until he had vainly rung the elevator buzzer several times that the truth dawned on him. The Christmas party was in full swing.
He climbed the stairway and peered into the open doorway of Rowland’s outer office. His initial impression was of utter confusion. Men and women were sitting on the edges of desks, and even on the floor, or standing around in groups. Scores of bottles were in view, and liquor glasses were everywhere.
No individual seemed to be aloof from the group, so if Tannahill was among them, then he had joined the party.
He found Frank Howland sitting on the floor behind a desk in the far corner of the room. Stephens poured himself a drink, and waited while the district attorney grew aware of him and peered up blearily over a glass of brown liquid.
Recognition came only after several seconds. Howland let out a piercing cry: “Hi, Stephens!”
The House that Stood Still Page 2