Tannahill was speaking: “Stephens, will you call the Ilvers Employment Agency and find out if they’ve got anyone for me yet.” He broke off: “Where’s your kitchen? I need a drink of water.”
Stephens directed him, and then called the agency. A man’s voice answered, and Stephens said, “I’m calling for Mr. Tannahill---” He got no further.
“Oh, then maybe you could take a message. This is Ilvers speaking. Tell Mr. Tannahill I’ve got a housekeeper for him.’’
Stephens took the full message. It appeared that the help would be up on the 28th for an interview, and the agency man was sure they would be satisfactory. He had been most fortunate in finding two such experienced servants.
Stephens was hanging up when Tannahill came in. Stephens gave him the gist of the conversation. Tannahill nodded, and said, “My idea is to have dinner downtown, then start on a binge where every drink is on the Tannahill bank account.” His sallow cheeks brightened with color. “Frankly, I need something like that myself. Care to come?”
Stephens shook his head. “I’d better stay here and try to get through to Peeley. If I get in touch with him, I’ll follow the trail of bottles and see how you’re getting along.”
He waited till the other had departed, glanced at his watch, groaned—it was after three—then quickly phoned the telephone company. There was a long pause, and then the operator said, “You placed a person-to-person call, Mr. Stephens. We have been through to Mr. Peeley’s house and office several times, but he himself is not available. Would you like to talk to somebody at his home?”
“Well—yes!” said Stephens.
Half a minute went by, and then a man who identified himself as a servant said, “Mr. Peeley has gone to the desert for the holidays, sir . . . No, sir, we don’t know his address yet. That’s been the trouble ever since your first call came through . . . Mr. Peeley said he would get in touch with us, but up to this hour he hasn’t done so. We have your telegram here.”
Stephens gave instructions that the lawyer be asked to phone “either Mr. Tannahill or Mr. Stephens—” that was the way he put it—at the earliest possible moment.
The sky was like blue velvet, as Stephens drove into town, the air cool but fresh. There was a new elevator operator at the Palms Building, whom Stephens recognized as the father-in-law of the janitor. The old man had substituted on occasion for Jenkins.
Jenkins’ body had been removed shortly after it was found. But Stephens had the janitor point out where it had lain. The corpse had been discovered at the head of the basement stairway behind the elevator. Stephens could not find a single mark or stain either in the basement or in the foyer to indicate that Jenkins had fought for his life.
Disappointed, but conscious that he was only beginning, Stephens went up to his office. He stayed just long enough to get Jenkins’ home number. He had a fairly sharp picture of the Jenkins’ domestic situation, and since Mrs. Jenkins was in jail, he was curious to see what he might find out. He drove to the address by the shortest route: A poor section of the city . . . tall, native palms . . . a stucco bungalow.
He rang the doorbell and, when no one answered, made his way down an unkempt stone walk to the back. The fenced-in yard was littered and overgrown with grass. At the far end was a garage, and under a tree on the north side stood a small trailer. A faint streamer of smoke emerged from a metal pipe that protruded from the roof of the trailer. Stephens walked over and knocked on the door.
It was opened by a woman whom he recognized as Madge, one of the cleaning women of the Palms Building.
The woman gasped when she saw him. “Why, Mr. Stephens!” she exclaimed.
“I’m looking for Mrs. Jenkins,’’ Stephens lied.
The thin, drab face took on a smug look. “She’s been arrested. Police think she done the old man in.”
Stephens stared at Madge thoughtfully. He had come intending to make use of her intimate knowledge of what went on in the Palms Building. He mustered his most engaging expression.
“Well, Madge, think she did it?”
Her bright, sharp eyes blinked at him. “Naw. What’d she want to kill him for? She wasn’t the type as could get another man. When you’re that type of woman, you’ve got to be careful.” It was obvious Madge had no such fears herself.
She seemed ready to talk, and since the gossipy Jenkins would have kept nothing from her, it seemed reasonable to hope that she might know something.
“Madge,” he said, “I want you to think over everything that happened during the days before Jenkins was killed. Try to remember what he said to you. Some little point may be the clue we’re looking for.”
Madge shrugged. “Not much help from me, I don’t think, Mr. Stephens. Bill told me about the scream you heard in that Indian office.” She giggled. “And when Mr. Peeley came in later that night he mentioned that, and—”
“Peeley!” said Stephens.
Thunder roiled in his brain. He caught himself. “Do you mean Walter Peeley, the lawyer from Los Angeles?”
“Yes, that’s the one. He always gives Bill a ten dollar bill when he comes in, and he sure is a swell guy.”
“Yes,” said Stephens absently. “Yes, I guess he is.”
There was a picture in his mind, multi-faceted and fantastic, but how it fitted?
He remembered how on that first night Tezlacodanal had opened the door of the Mexican Import Company expecting a big man.
He hadn’t thought of Peeley as being one of them, principally—he realized now—because of what Mistra had said about Tanequila’s possessive attitude in connection with the Grand House. Apparently, it had been enough for that grim personality that the ownership was vested in him. He had no objection to the others attending to the details of administration.
Stephens said, slowly, “Listen, Madge, if you remember anything, tell me first. Okay?”
“Sure,” said Madge.
He walked away, wondering why Peeley had murdered Jenkins—if he had. It was unlikely that he would worry about anyone knowing that he was in town. Peeley didn’t have to explain his movements to Allison Stephens, or anyone else.
He started again downtown and saw by his watch that it was shortly after five o’clock.
Stephens had dinner in town, and then for more than two hours he sat in his car outside the Waldorf Arms, observing who went in and who came out. He had formed a theory about the residents of the building. They were members of the group who at the moment were not masquerading as respectable citizens. As such, like Mistra, they would be identified as they really were.
Altogether, while he watched, five people either emerged from or entered the apartment house. Of the five, Stephens had a good look at two, both white men, both distinguished in appearance, and neither of whom he had previously seen.
He gave up his vigil shortly before nine, and headed for the Palms Building.
He was both disappointed and relieved when he saw that the office of the Mexican Import Company was dark. He listened at the door until he was certain, then used his pass key to get in. Bold now, he clicked on the light, verified that he was alone in the place, and immediately located the book that contained the addresses, though not the names, of people with whom the Mexican Import Company did business. He wrote down twenty-two in addition to those he already had. That done, he turned one of the clay figures on its side and he was wondering how he would penetrate to the mechanism inside when a sound distracted him. He turned hastily—and jumped to his feet. A man was standing in the doorway regarding him. The stranger was tall and well-built, and looked sensationally familiar. Yet it took a moment for the identification to sink in.
The man was wearing a mask of the face of Allison Stephens. Stephens had the feeling of looking in a mirror— and then the lights went out.
X
He woke up in darkness. He seemed to be lying on a bare, earth floor. Stephens fumbled cautiously around him with his hands. And there was no doubt. Ground.
Lying there, he re
membered that he must have been knocked unconscious from behind.
He stiffened with the recollection, and felt the back of his head. But he could find no bruise, nor was there an area that was sensitive to the touch. Puzzled, he climbed to his feet, and searched for his automatic. To his relief, it was in his pocket. Quickly, he hunted for, and located, a book of matches. The first flame flickered and went out so quickly that he saw nothing. He cupped the next one, and had a brief glimpse of bare earth above and to either side as well as below. Ahead was shadow.
A cave.
The match went out, and he was in darkness again. He thought with concentrated determination: “I can’t be very far from the Palms Building.”
That reassured him briefly. He lit a third match, and this time saw that there was darkness behind as well as in front of him. He also glanced at his watch; the time was five minutes to ten. The match flickered and snuffed out. Stephens started in the direction he had been facing. He moved slowly, balancing himself against one wall, stepping forward gingerly and making sure that there was solid ground ahead before he trusted his full weight to it. He realized presently that he was climbing.
For a while that made him feel better. It was at least the logical direction for escape.
Half an hour went by. “My God!” he thought, “Where am I? And where am I going?” He went over in his mind the nature of the terrain above, and then it dawned on him. Why, of course. He was climbing up toward the Grand House. He tried to remember just how far it was, and guessed half a mile.
About an hour later, he realized that he was no longer in the cave proper. He was walking on a carpeted floor. Stephens stopped short, and stood in the darkness listening. No sound. He struck another match, and by its dim light saw that he was in a small room.
There was a sofa in an alcove in one corner, and several odd-looking kerosene-type lamps on a wall table. He tried to open one of the lamps so that he could light it, but the chimney seemed immovable and he only succeeded in wasting several matches. Fumbling over the smooth surface of the bowl in the darkness, he touched a button.
He pressed on it, and then stepped back in surprise as the core of the lamp glowed brightly. The whole room lit up as if it were daylight.
Stephens would have liked to pause and examine the light, but he was too tense, too aware of the fact that he had been brought here, and that there must be a purpose behind the action.
In a lightning glance, he noted that there were three French-type chairs in addition to the sofa, as well as odds and ends of furniture. More important, when he looked behind a curtain he saw that it opened into a narrow corridor. Carrying the lamp, Stephens followed it to a flight of steps. At the top of the steps was a blank metal wall.
Stephens pushed against it, searching for a lock mechanism, but in the end returned to the room, and examined it again, more carefully this time.
There was no sign of recent occupancy. Dust was everywhere. The colors of the tapestry-covered sofa were dulled by the heavy dust and a copy of History of the Grand House lay on it. As Stephens picked up the volume, a sheet fell out. It was covered by fantastic designs, and across the top of the page was written, in faded ink:
Better translate this. The language is growing dim in my mind.
That recalled the thoughts he had had when he had first glanced at the history. In a daze of interest, he sank down on the sofa. The book was open at a chapter titled, The Saving, of the House.
At first, as he read, he was restless, but slowly his jumpy nerves settled down. He became fascinated, then he forgot himself. The Spanish expedition which made a land journey from Mexico to the vicinity of San Francisco Bay missed seeing the Grand House as the result of a bold action by Tezlacodanal. The Indian had gone down to meet the group. Without hesitation he denounced the party’s Indian guides as agents of the wild killer tribes, and offered to lead the expedition along the coast. His ready command of the Spanish language intrigued de Portala who had already been appointed governor of both Californias, and that rather stupid man proceeded to impose such trust in his new guide that he never once suspected the truth. The large party, with its military escort, was led inland, then back again to the coast, when the Grand House was well behind them.
The return journey followed the same route, and so the owners of the Grand House had time to decide finally what they were going to do.
Plastering the house with clay, and planting trees in front of it had saved it from being observed from the sea. But now a more drastic and permanent solution was necessary, to save it from being seen by the Spanish adventurers and priests who would come in ever greater numbers.
It was decided that the house must seem to be destroyed.
Strong guards were posted at all the trails leading to the house. The Indians of the village suddenly found that they were no longer permitted to climb the hill. Hundreds of workmen were brought in from the north, and lived in guarded bunkhouses at night During the daytime, the women and men of the house, armed and alert, watched the laborers while they carried huge quantities of earth from the east hill—and buried the house.
Buried it completely, and continuously transplanted trees in front of it, and so kept the entire operation hidden from below. The burial required a year and two months, at the end of which time the workmen were returned to their homes. They were back at their homes no more than a day when a well-organized army of wild Indians swooped down upon them out of the hills, and massacred every man, woman and child. There was no suggestion in the book that the attack had been contrived by the Tannahills, but the massacre was very timely. In a single blow it wiped out all outsiders who knew that the Grand House had been buried.
Late one evening, shortly afterwards, the inhabitants of Almirante woke to see a huge fire on the mountain. It burned nearly all night, and in the morning when they were permitted to approach, they saw great slabs of marble lying on the ground covered with soot, and everywhere was the evidence that the Grand House had indeed burned down.
A flimsy Spanish hacienda was erected on top of the house. More trees were planted. And Tanequila went down to Mexico City, and gave a number of lavish parties for officials there. He did not remain long enough to arouse envy, but he secured a land grant of vast proportions from a governor who liked his food served daintily. The grant was duly registered in Madrid, and was among those ratified in later years by the American government.
Stephens paused, and he was mentally picturing a hard-eyed Tannahill playing host to people dead these two centuries—when he realized what he was doing. Actually sitting here reading. He thought in amazement: “Why, I’m taking this situation for granted.” Swiftly, he went back in his mind over what had happened, seeking to discover what had relaxed him. The book?
It seemed to be the answer. The book established the connection of the cave with the Grand House. This was a part of what had gone before. For some reason a member of the group had carried him into this secret cave, intending him apparently to discover this room. Why? And where had the man gone?
Stephens’ mind faltered at that point He could not imagine any valid reason. Abruptly tense, he listened. There was no sound. A great silence pressed around him. He crammed the book into his coat pocket, picked up the lamp, and stood undecided. Which way?
He finally pushed aside the curtain and, stumbling in his anxiety, followed the narrow corridor that led up a flight of steps to the apparently blank metal wall which he had previously examined. He set the lamp down; and he tugged and strained against the wall. After a minute, he was perspiring freely, but he persisted; and, suddenly an entire section folded noiselessly up.
The rays of the lamp revealed a long room beyond the opening. In the first glance, Stephens saw glass cases and several clay figures similar to those in the Mexican Import office.
Stephens picked up the lamp, and cautiously ventured into the room. The silence was all-enveloping as it had been in the cave, which emboldened him. The room was bigger than he had thought
, and at one end was a staircase leading up. He hurried toward it along an aisle between two rows of glass cases. The cases seemed to provide display space for a variety of small figurines and odd looking costume jewelry. He guessed that he was in a museum, but he did not pause for a closer look.
And yet, even as he climbed the stairs, there was the beginning of an identification in his mind. A moment later he reached the top of the staircase, and looked along the gleaming hallway of the Grand House.
Stephens walked slowly forward. Through the double doors, he could see that it was still dark outside. That relieved him considerably. Despite what his wrist watch had indicated, he had been keenly aware of the possibility that it might be morning and not night. Apparently, he had been unconscious only a few minutes.
He glanced into the living room, and then into a book-lined room and, farther back, a bedroom. They were unoccupied, and there was no sound from anywhere. It seemed scarcely the moment to linger in the Grand House. Stephens hurried down the stairs and through the museum. He paused to test the entrance to the cave, to see how it worked from the house side. And then he had closed the panel behind him, and was once more in the cave.
He did not stop now, but walked swiftly through the little room, and so on into the broad reaches of the cave. He was tense again, but determined. He had time to explore the cave, and he intended to do so.
Down he went, and came up presently to where a second and smaller tunnel split off to the right. Stephens glanced at his watch. A quarter after twelve. Unwise to go off on side trips. And yet—
He went. He followed that side tunnel and, with the brilliant glow from the lamp to light his way, half-ran along a cave that gradually curved down and back towards the Grand House, except that he was probably several hundred yards below the level of the house.
The cave ended at a cross tunnel. Stephens glanced along the new underground corridor, first in one direction and then the other. Once again it was a question of which direction he should go. He was standing there uncertainly when the gleam of the wall opposite him attracted his attention. He walked over and touched it. Metal.
The House that Stood Still Page 8