As the weeks went by, it grew clear to me that we were due for a long residence. Knowing the captains of my other two ships, and remembering our arrangements in the matter of sharing profits, I did not doubt but that they had carefully neglected to search for me, if they had escaped destruction. It was almost certain therefore that they would by now be on the way to Cape Horn and Spain, and that years might pass before another ship came to this particular stretch of coastline. On this assumption I decided to normalize the position of the crew in the village below.
I went down personally, and had the villagers drawn up before me in long lines, men and women and young girls. It was a fairly simple matter to select thirty of the better-looking women, and then isolate their husbands for immediate execution and burial. From among the widows (and a few single girls) the crew members each selected a woman, and I married them then and there by the Bible and assigned huts on the basis of previous ownership. I understand that for a while there was a problem with the bastards the women had borne the native men, but that was a matter I left for each husband to solve for himself. Within a month life in the village was back to normal.
During the year that followed, my main problem was the development of the land. To achieve maximum results I decided against the enslavement of local people, but determined instead to send out patrols to take prisoners from remote villages. These captives were then instructed in their duties by the natives of the newly-named village of Almirante, who acted in the role of overseers. They never seemed to notice that the work which they extracted from their prisoners was nearly all for my benefit, and not their own. There were unfortunate incidents, but the land under tillage by the end of the year was a tribute to the new system.
At the end of the second year there was still no sign of the former owner of the house, and I concluded that he had correctly appraised the entire situation and that in fact his purpose in surrendering the house had been designed to insure that we did not destroy it. We found no evidence of the Toltec temples which legend said had once towered around the house. They had evidently been torn down, and all vestiges of their presence laboriously removed. It seemed to me, however, that the house itself was an example of Mayan architecture. The palenque style, both inside and out, was very marked, though slightly different from anything I had ever seen in Central America.
These problems did not actually concern me at this time. And they departed even more from my thoughts in the third year when the assassination attempts began. What saved us was my prompt recognition that what happened was not a series of isolated events but the initial moves of the former owner to rid his house of interlopers. The knife that Tezlacodanal stuck into my back could have killed me if he had had the strength to overpower me afterwards. The arrow that struck Cahunja missed his right lung by a hair breadth. Alonzo was the unlucky one. His mistress, an Indian woman named Gico Aine, successfully stabbed him to death. No attempt was made on the lives of the women, which was an indication of what was intended for them.
Gico and Tezlacodanal (the Indian who had first come to our camp) escaped together. Two other Indians also left, but we caught one of them and executed him on suspicion of complicity, though we had no evidence. This was the first of many attempts at murder, all of which I will describe in detail in a later chapter, since they constituted an integral part of the route that led to our eventual discovery of the secret of the Grand House. This secret which—
The page was torn in half at that point It had been ripped cross-wise, and then down the inside margin. Stephens looked to see if the torn section had been put elsewhere in the book. But all he discovered was that there were seven other pages which had been mutilated. A quick glance at the subject matter leading up to the torn sections showed that in every case the reference was to the “secret” of the Grand House.
Stephens searched for other references. Finding none, hie returned his attention to the chapter he had read, in which the name Tezlacodanal had been mentioned. It was interesting to know that there were descendants. He was still thinking about that, or so it seemed to him, when he woke with a start.
VI
A faint dawn light permeated the room. It was so dim that he was just able to make out two human shapes standing beside him. He stared into the dark with the sick tenseness of a man surprised in the night by dangerous intruders. In that first instant, he had no sense of recognition.
A man’s voice said, “Don’t move, Stephens!”
The tone held Stephens rigid. There was infinite threat in it. Stephens swallowed and, now that his eyes were growing accustomed to the light, he saw that at least a dozen people were in the room.
Curiously, that relieved him. He realized that he had expected two individuals to murder him out of hand. He didn’t expect that from many. There was no clear reason for such a conviction. His mind jumped to it, and that was all.
He relaxed, and thought: This is the group that whipped Mistra!
The two men who had stood over him retreated to nearby chairs. The one who had spoken before said, “Stephen, make no sudden moves! We’re wearing night vision glasses. We can see you plainly.”
There was a pause; then: “Stephens, who are you?”
Stephens, who had been trying to imagine what night vision glasses were, said involuntarily, “Who am I? How do you mean?”
He had intended to go on, but he stopped. The unusualness of the question struck into him. The empty feeling came back. The “gang” wouldn’t have asked such a question. They knew who he was.
His thought reached that point; and he said, “Who are you?”
A woman sighed out of the darkness: “I could almost see his mind working. I think he’s innocent.”
The man who seemed to be the spokesman for the group ignored the interruption. He said, “Stephens, at the moment we’re not satisfied with your position in this affair. If you really are who you appear to be, then I would advise you most earnestly to answer our questions. If you’re not, then of course you will try to deceive us.”
Stephens listened with sober attentiveness. There were implications here of—he couldn’t decide. He felt the return of unreality. It struck him that, as Tannahill’s lawyer, he might gain a great deal of information. He said almost briskly, “I don’t know what you’re getting at, but go ahead.”
In the background, there was a low laugh from the woman who had previously interrupted. “He thinks he’s going to learn something.”
The spokesman sounded irritated. “My dear, we appreciate your ability to read minds, but please restrain yourself from making these unnecessary comments.”
“Now, he’s naively alarmed,” said the woman. She broke off tolerantly, “All right, I’ll shut up.”
There was silence but for Stephens it was weighted now. A mind reader! His instinct was to be cynical; and yet, he sensed depths within depths. Money was involved and intelligence, and brutality that could whip other humans, and shoot without hesitation.
It tensed him again, and he had an amazing picture of his own position at this moment. “Why. I’m on trial here,” he thought.
And he didn’t know what the charge was.
Before he could speak, the man said: “Stephens, we’ve been investigating your back history. And there seems to be no doubt that there was a baby named Allison Stephens born 31 years ago in Northern California. A boy of that name went to public school in a small town, to high school in San Francisco, and, according to the records, Allison Stephens joined the Marines in 1942.”
The speaker paused; and Stephens whose mind had leaped briefly to a part of the reality behind each description—a mental picture of the town where he had spent his childhood, an incident from high school, the day he embarked for active service—nodded, and waited. These things were accepted realities. The silence grew long; and he had time to realize that they were giving the mind reader a chance to examine his reactions. It staggered him a little; it raised the level of the interview to—once again he couldn’t
decide.
All in a flash his mind jumped to a thought he hadn’t had before. He said aloud, amazed: “Just a minute. Who do you think I am?”
It was the woman who answered: “I honestly don’t believe we need carry this any further. I could see that notion coming, and it had behind it all the emotional surprise that came out in his voice.”
A second man said, “But why did he sneak into Tezla’s apartment?”
“Stephens, answer that to our satisfaction, and you’re in the clear!” It was the first speaker.
Stephens parted his lips to describe how he had seen Tezla outside the Waldorf Arms; and then he stopped. He heard the woman say:
“He’s angry now. It’s suddenly dawned on him that we’ve had an almighty nerve coming in here and questioning him as if our position was legally sound.”
There was general laughter. When it faded, the spokesman said in an inexorable tone: “But still, what made him go in? Stephens, don’t let your annoyance overcome your common sense. Answer!”
Stephens hesitated. He was impressed by the other’s earnestness, and besides, why not? If one answer would rid him of these dangerous people, he’d better give it. He said quietly:
“I had just talked to Tannahill and he mentioned Mistra Lanett having been his uncle’s secretary. That tied her in with you; and so when I saw—” He hesitated— “what’s his name—”
The woman cut him off. “I sense a little more motivation than that. I have the feeling that he hoped to locate Mistra. I think he’s infatuated.”
They were standing up. A man said in a low tone: “Get the books he took!”
The door opened. There was considerable shuffling of feet and presently the sound of several cars starting up. The motor throb faded into the distance.
Stephens examined the door. First Mistra had unlocked it, now these people. It was time to change the lock, though the problem of just how they had all had keys was worth further inquiry. He retired to one of the bedrooms, and for the first time let himself think that the mind reader had missed an important point.
She had failed to realize that he had found the clue to Tezla’s residence in the desk of the Mexican Import Company. It seemed rather a vital failure on her part, and left him in possession of several other addresses, which he could now investigate first thing tomorrow morning. Perhaps Mistra was at one of them.
The prospect excited him, and he went to sleep thinking, “She’s beautiful, she’s beautiful . . . beautiful . . .”
Shortly after nine the following morning, he drew up a block from the top address on his list. The number he wanted turned out to be a small estate, the house set well back from the road behind a high iron fence. A small boy, who was passing, said, “Oh, that’s the home of Judge Adams.”
Stephens thought almost blankly, “But that’s ridiculous. Judge Adams wouldn’t do—”
He couldn’t decide what Judge Adams would or wouldn’t do.
It took until eleven o’clock to investigate the dozen addresses he had written down. They were, without exception, among the most important people in town: Judge William Adams, Judge Alden Porter, John Carewell and Martin Grant, owners of the two daily newspapers, the heads of three building concerns, Madeleine Mallory, who owned the only private bank in Almirante, two well-known society women, and a prominent importer. Last, but not least, was J. Aswell Dordee, owner of a large eastern steel works; he was reputed, though still a comparatively young man, to have retired to Almirante for his health.
The list was so imposing that, as it mounted, Stephens began to have the conviction that he had hold of a hornet’s nest. His early feeling that he might threaten to expose the members if they continued to go after Tannahill yielded to the uneasy realization that the city was firmly controlled. He drove to the larger of the two newspapers and spent more than an hour in its library, poring over photographs of prominent Almiranteans. He did not ask for specific pictures, and so he found only seven of the people he had identified.
He examined the faces, trying to decide if they could possibly—with the aid of masks—transform themselves into the gang members he had seen. He wasn’t sure. He’d have to see them in person, and hear their voices. Even then it wouldn’t be final. A voice, so an actor had once assured Stephens, was easy to imitate. As for appearance, without a face to compare also, one person looked much like another of his own general build.
Stephens left the newspaper building, uncertain as to what his next move should be. It was December 24th, a bad day for an investigation. The stores would remain open till 9 P.M., but most office buildings were already deserted. He was anxious to begin a search for the fingerprints of Newton Tannahill, though just how that might be done without the help of the police was a problem. Right after the holiday he would put Miss Chainer to work looking up documents that the older Tannahill had signed. Fingerprints casually left on a paper would not be easily accepted as belonging to any one individual. And yet, it was one of the steps that had to be taken.
Reluctantly, Stephens headed for home; at the last moment, he decided to go by way of the Waldorf Arms.
Having made the fateful decision, it seemed natural to park fifty or sixty yards from the entrance in the hope that somebody would come along. He had been there about ten minutes when the door of his car was opened abruptly and Mistra Lanett, breathing hard, settled into the seat beside him.
“I want you to help me get into my apartment,” she said. “I don’t dare try to run the gauntlet alone.”
VII
Stephens did not answer immediately, nor did he move. There was a queer, mixed thought at the back of his mind, half anger, half pleasure. He realized that he was glad to see her, and at the same time he was annoyed that she chose these melodramatic methods of coming upon him. He had to admit that in the past she hadn’t had much choice.
He found his voice. “How’s your side?” he asked as matter-of-factly as he could manage.
Mistra made an impatient gesture. “Oh, that. That healed overnight.”
She had on a green suit that matched the color of her eyes. The effect was startling; it gave a kind of glow to her appearance.
He refrained from saying so. He said slowly, “I suppose you realize you have a lot of explaining to do.”
He saw that she was looking intently at the entrance of the apartment budding. Without glancing at him, she said, “We can talk when we get inside. Please—let’s not waste any time.”
Stephens said, “You mean—somebody might try—to prevent you from going inside to your own apartment?”
“Not if I have a man with me.”
Mistra started to climb out of the car. “Let’s go!” she said.
No one tried to stop them. Stephens, who had been too preoccupied the previous night to be observant, had time and opportunity to be amazed by what he saw. The ceilings were high and intricately wrought. Rugs obviously worth thousands of dollars lay on the floor.
The elevator stopped at the third floor, and they walked along a wide corridor under hidden lights that cast a cool, bluish brightness on the ceilings and the walls. Mistra paused before a door of limpidly transparent plate glass. Stephens could see another door beyond it, which seemed to be made of metal and was opaque. Her key slitted into an almost invisible lock of the outer door. It opened with a wheezing sound.
She went inside, Stephens following. She paused in the alcove until the first door had shut behind them, then unlocked the inner door. It opened onto a corridor, the ceiling of which was unusually high—fifteen feet, Stephens estimated.
The room into which she led him was like that also. Stephens saw that Mistra had tossed her stole and purse into a chair, and that she was heading for what looked like a built-in bar.
Stephens took out his Nambu. “I think I’d better search the place.”
“It’s not necessary.” Mistra spoke without turning. “We’re safe here.”
Her assurance did not satisfy him. He headed quickly along a corrid
or that led to two bedrooms, each with private bath. There was a stairway at the end of the hall with a closed door at the top. The door was locked, but it shocked him mildly to discover that it was metal and seemed very solid.
He returned to the living room, and followed a second corridor to what at first glance looked like a music chamber. Behind glass cases, from wall to ceiling, were record albums.
But that was only the wall facing the door. To his right was what seemed to be built-in electronic equipment. Stephens guessed: record-player, television, radio, and also—he saw after a moment—broadcasting paraphernalia including transformers and control panel He shook his head, turned, and saw that the left wall was lined with bookcases.
There were many books, but he had a profound curiosity about Mistra’s reading tastes. The first shelves he examined were not very satisfactory from that point of view. They were technical scientific volumes—hundreds of them, he discovered.
He was moving swiftly now, and he came to several shelves of history, about half of them in Spanish. A few English titles he noted were: History of Spanish Civilization in America, Popul Vuh, Spanish Influences in Old Mexico, The Beginnings of Almirante, Tanequila the Bold, History of the Grand House . . .
A tinkle of glasses from the direction of the living room ended his interest in the books. The sound reminded him that a beautiful woman should not be left alone too long, lest her interest turn to other matters—and other men. He found her behind the bar, setting out some bottles.
She greeted him: “Would you prefer to make love first, or have a drink?”
Stephens was stunned by the open invitation. He said finally, his voice trembling, “Are you in my debt again?”
“I can see,” she said airily, “that liquor doesn’t attract you at this moment.” She came promptly from behind the bar. “All right, if that’s the way it is. But I hope you’ll spend Christmas with me, and that we can have a drink later.” She took his hand and tugged him into motion. “My bedroom is this way,” she said.
The House that Stood Still Page 5