The Blind Spot

by Austin Hall and Homer Eon Flint

  XII

  A DEAL IN PROPERTY

  But to return. There was work that I should do--much work if I was goingafter the solution. In the first place, there was the house. I turnedmy back to the waterfront and entered the city. The streets were packed,the commerce of man jostled and threaded along the highways; there waslife and action, hope, ambition. It was what I had loved so well. Yetnow it was different.

  I realised it vaguely, and wondered. This feeling of aloofness? It wasintrinsic, coming from within, like the withering of one's marrow. Ilaughed at my foreboding; it was not natural; I tried to shake myselftogether.

  I had no difficulty with the records. In less than an hour I traced outthe owners, "an estate," and had located the agent. It just so happenedthat he was a man with whom I had some acquaintance. We were not long incoming to business.

  "The house at No. 288 Chatterton Place?"

  I noticed that he was startled; there was a bit of wonder in his look--aquizzical alertness. He motioned me to a chair and closed the door.

  "Sit down, Mr. Wendel; sit down. H-m! The house at No. 288 ChattertonPlace? Did I hear you right?"

  Again I noted the wonder; his manner was cautious and curious. I nodded.

  "Want to buy it or just lease it? Pardon me, but you are sort of afriend. I would not like to lose your friendship for the sake of a meresale. What is your--"

  "Just for a residence," I insisted. "A place to live in."

  "I see. Know anything about this place?"

  "Do you?"

  He fumbled with some papers. For an agent he did not strike me as beingvery solicitous for a commission.

  "Well," he said, "in a way, yes. A whole lot more than I'd like to. Itall depends. One gets much from hearsay. What I know is mostlyrumour." He began marking with a pencil. "Of course I don't believe it.Nevertheless I would hardly recommend it to a friend as a residence."

  "And these rumours?"

  He looked up; for a moment he studied; then:

  "Ever hear of the Blind Spot? Perhaps you remember Dr. Holcomb--in 1905,before the 'quake. It was a murder. The papers were full of it at thetime; since then it has been occasionally featured in the supplements. Ido not believe in the story; but I can trust to facts. The last seen ofDr. Holcomb was in this house. It is called the Blind Spot."

  "Then you believe in the story?" I asked.

  He looked at me.

  "Oh, you know it, eh? No, I do not. It's all bunkum; reporters' workand exaggeration. If you like that kind of stuff, it's weird andinteresting. But it hurts property. The man was undoubtedly murdered.The tale hangs over the house. It's impossible to dispose of the place."

  "Then why not sell it to me?"

  He dropped his pencil; he was a bit nervous.

  "A fair question, Mr. Wendel--a very fair question. Well, now, why don'tI? Perhaps I shall. There's no telling. But I'd rather not. Do you know,a year ago I would have jumped at an offer. Fact is, I did lease it--thelease ran out yesterday--to a man named Watson. I don't believe a thingin this nonsense; but what I have seen during the past year has testedmy nerve considerably."

  "What about Watson?"

  "Watson? A year ago he came to see me in regard to this Chattertonproperty. Wanted to lease it. Was interested in the case of Dr. Holcomb;asked for a year's rental and the privilege of renewal. I don't know. Igave it to him; but when he drops in again I am going to fight almightyhard against letting him hold it longer."

  "Why?"

  "Why? Why, because I don't believe in murder. A year ago he came tome the healthiest and happiest man I ever saw; today he is a shadow. Iwatched that boy go down. Understand, I don't believe a damn word I'msaying; but I have seen it. It's that cursed house. I say no, whenI reason; but it keeps on my nerves; it's on my conscience. It isinsidious. Every month when he came here I could see disintegration.It's pitiful to see a young man stripped of life like that; forlorn,hopeless, gone. He has never told me what it is; but I have wondered. Abattle; some conflict with--there I go again. It's on my nerves, I tellyou, on my nerves. If this keeps up I'll burn it."

  It was a bit foreboding. Already I could feel the tugging at my heartthat had done for Watson. This man had watched my friend slipping intothe shadow; I had come to take his place.

  "Watson has gone," I said simply; "and that's why I am here."

  He straightened up.

  "You know him then. He was not--"

  "He went last night; he has left the country. He was in very poorhealth. That's why I am here. I know very well the cloud that hangs overthe property; it is my sole reason for purchasing."

  "You don't believe in this nonsense?"

  I smiled. Certainly the man was perverse in his agnosticism; he wasstubborn in disbelief. It was on his nerves; on his conscience; he wasafraid.

  "I believe nothing," I answered; "neither do I disbelieve. I know allthe story that has been told or written. I am a friend of Watson. Youneed not scruple in making me out a bill of sale. It's my own funeral. Iabide by the consequences."

  He gave a sigh of relief. After all, he was human. He had honour; butit was after the brand of Pontius Pilate. He wished nothing on hisconscience.

  Armed with the keys and the legal title, I took possession. In thedaylight it was much as it had been the night before. Once across itsthreshold, one was in dank and furtive suppression; the air was heavy;a mould of age had streaked the walls and gloomed the shadows. I put upall the curtains to let in the rush of sunlight, likewise I opened thewindows. If there is anything to beat down sin, it is the open measureof broad daylight.

  The house was well situated; from the front windows one could look downthe street and out at the blue bay beyond the city. The fog had liftedand the sun was shining upon the water. I could make out the ferryboats,the islands, and the long piers that lead to Oakland, and still fartherbeyond the hills of Berkeley. It was a long time since those days incollege. Under the shadow of those hills I had first met the old doctor.I was only a boy then.

  I turned into the building. Even the sound of my footsteps was foreign;the whole place was pregnant with stillness and shadow; life was goneout. It was fearful; I felt the terror clutching upon me, a grimnessthat may not be spoken; there was something breaking within me. I hadpledged myself for a year. Frankly I was afraid.

  But I had given my word. I returned to my apartments and began thatvery day the closing down of my practice. In a fortnight I had completedeverything and had moved my things to the room of Chick Watson.