THE FACE ON THE WALL

Auckland Star, Volume LXVII, Issue 71, 24 March 1936, Page 20

THE FACE ON THE WALL

I STILL tingle with mortification over an experience at Dabney's last even-

ing, the only satisfaction being that others tingle with me. We were talking of tlio supernatural—that unprofitable but endlessly alluring theme —and most of us had cited an instance, without, however, producing much effect.

Among the strangers to me was a little man with an anxious white face, whom Rtidson-Wayte had brought, and he watched each speaker \vith the closest attention, but said nothing. Then Dabney, wishing to include him in the talk, turned to him and asked if he had no experience to relate, 110 story that contained an inexplicable element.

He thought a moment. "Well," lie said, "not a story in the ordinary sense of the word: nothing, that is, from hearsay, like most of your examples. Truth, I always hold, is not only vastly stranger than fiction, but also vastly more interesting. I could tell you an occurrence which happened to mo personally, and which oddly enough, completed itself only this afternoon." We begged him to begin. "A year or two ago," he said, "I was in rooms in Great Ormont Street —ail' old house on the Holborn side. The bedroom walls had been distempered by a previous tenant, but the place was damp and great patches of discoloration had broken out. One of these—as indeed often happens —was exactly like a human face; but more faithfully and startlingly, like, than is customary.

"Lying in bed in the morning, putting off getting up, I used to w<itch it and watch it, and gradually I came to think of it as real—as my fellow lodger, in fact. The odd thing was that, while the patches on the walls grew larger and changed their contours, this never did. It remained identically the same.

"While there, I had a very bad attack of influenza, with complications, and all day long I had nothing to do but read or meditate, and it was then that this face began to get a firmer hold of me. It grew more and more real and remarkable. I may say that it dominated my thoughts day and night. There was a curious turn to the nose, and the slant of the forehead was unique. It was, in fact, full of individuality; the face of a man apart, a man in a thousand.

"Well. I got better, but the face still controlled me. I found myself searching the streets for one like it. Somewhere, I was convinced, the real man must exist and him I must meet. Why, I had no notion; I only knew that he and I were in some way linked by fate.

"I frequented places where men congregate in large numbers —political meetings, football matches, the railway stations when the suburban trains pour forth their legions on the City in the morning and receive them again the evening. "But all in vain. I had never before realised as I then did how many lifferent faces of man there arc and how few. For all differ, and yet, classified, they belong to only as many groups as you can count on vour hands.

"The search became a mania with me. I neglected everything else. I stood at busy corners watching the crowd until people thought me crazy, and the police began to know me and be suspicious. Women I never glanced at; men, men, men, all the time.

He passed his hand wearily over his brow. "And then," he continued, "at last I saw him. He was in a taxi driving east along Piccadilly. I turned and ran beside it for a little way, and then saw an empty one coming. 'Follow that taxi,' I gasped, and leaped in.

"The driver managed to keep it in sight, and it took us to Charing Cross. I rushed on to the platform and found my man with two ladies and a little girl. They were going to France by the 2.20. I hung'about to try and get a word' with him, but in vain. Other friends had joined the party and they moved to the train in a solid body.

"I hastily purchased a ticket to Folkestone, hoping that I should catch him on the boat before it sailed; but at Folkestone he got on board before me with his friends, and they disappeared into a large private sa|oon, .several cabins thrown into one. Evidently he was a mail of wealth.

"Again I was foiled; but I determined to "cross too, feeling certain" that when the voyage - had begun he would leave the. ladies and come out for a stroll on the deck. I had only just enough for a single fare to Boulogne, but nothing could shake me now. I took up my position opposite the saloon door and waited.

"After half an hour the door opened and he came out, but with the little girl. My heart beat so that it seemed to shake.the boat,more than the propeller. There was too mistaking'the face —every line was the-same. He glanced at me and moved towards the companionway for the upper deck. It was now or never, I felt.

" 'Excuse me,' I stammered, 'but do you mind giving me your card? I have a very important reason for wishing to communicate with you.'

"He seemed to be astonished, as indeed well he might; but he complied. With extreme deliberation he took out his case and handed me his card and hurried on with the little girl. It was clear that he thought me a lunatic and considered it wiser to humour me than Dot.

"Clutching the card I hurried to a deserted corner of the ship and read it. My eyes dimmed; my head swam; for on it were the words: Mr. Ormond Wall, with an address at Pittsburg, United States. I remember no more until I found myself in a hospital at Boulogne. There I lay in a broken condition for some weeks, and only a month ago did I return." He was silent. We looked at him and at one another and waited. All the other talk of the evening was nothing compared with the story of the little pale man. "I went back," he resumed after a moment or so, "to Great Ormond Street and set to work to discover all I e.mild about this American in whose life I had so mysteriously intervened. I wrote to Pittsburg; I wrote to American editors; I cultivated the society of Americans in London; but'all that I could find out .Was that he was a millionaire with 'English parents who had resided in Lon. don. But where? To that question I received no answer.

"And so the time went on until yesterday morning. I had gone to bed more than usually tired and slept till late. When I woke the sun was streaming into the room. As I always do, I

(SHORT STORY.)

(By E. V. LUCAS.)

looked at oncc at the wall oil which the face is to be seen. I rubbed my eyea and sprang up in alarm. It was only faintly visible. Last night it had been as clear as ever—almost I could hear if speak. And now it was but a ghost of itself."

"I got up dazed and dejected and went out. The early editions of the evening papers were already out,, and on the con. tents bill I saw, 'American Millionaire's Motor Accident.' You must all of you have seen it. I bought it and :~ead at once what I knew I should read. Mr. Ormond Wall, the Pittsburg millionaire, and party, motoring from Spezzia to Pisa, had come into collision with a wagon and were overthrown: Mr. Wall's condition was critical. "I went back to my room still dazed, and sat on the bed looking with unseeing eyes at the face on the wall. And even as I looked, suddenly it completely disappeared. "Later I found that Mr. Wall had succumbed to his injuries at what I take to be that very moment." Again he was silent. "Most remarkable," we said; "most extraordinary," and so forth, and we meant it, too. *♦' ♦ • "Yes," said the stranger. "There are three extraordinary, three most remarkable things about my story. One is that it should be possible for the discoloration in a lodging house in Loiidon not only to form the features of a gentleman in America, but to have this intimate association with his existence. It will take science some time to explain that. Another is that that gentleman's name should bear any relation to the spot on which his features were being so curiously reproduced by some mysterious agency. Is it not so?" We agreed with him, and our original discussion on supernatural manifestations set in again with increased excitement, during which the narrator of the amazing experience rose and said,' Goodnight." Just as he was at the door, one of the company—l rejoice to think it was Spanton —recalled ijs to the cause of our excited debatte by asking him, before lie left, what lie considered the third extraordinary thing in connection with liis deeply interesting story. "You said three things, you know," Spanton reminded him. "Oh. the third thing," he said, as he opened the door, "I was forgotting that. The third extraordinary thing about the story is that I made it- up about half an hour ago. Good night, again. After eomiii? to our senses we looked round for Rudson-Wavtc, who had brought this snake to bite our bosoms, but lie, too, had disappeared.