The Room Under the Stairs

Sun (Auckland), Volume III, Issue 843, 11 December 1929, Page 5

The Room Under the Stairs

The Baffling Story of a Man Who Read of His Own Murder.

By

Herman Landon

Copyright by G. Howard Watt. Serialised by Ledger Syndicate.

CHAPTER 111. —Continued. THE HOUSE ON HUDSON STREET As he rode into the city Dean determined that liis first step should be a visit to the old family home on Hudson Street. It wa s obviously the hub of the whole mystery, for it was there the crime mentioned in Lamont’s confession had bee 1 committed. At any rate, it seemed the logical starting point for the investigation he intended to conduct. Repeatedly he told himself that he must keep an open mind until he could learn the true state of affairs from lirst-hand inquiry. He could not hope to discover much, for live and a half years had elapsed since the commission of the crime of which the dying man had spoken, and time had doubtless obliterated whatever clues had existed. Yet he felt he would he in no mood for either work or rest until the tantalising riddle had been solved, and it was just possible that the gloomy nooks in the house on Hudson Street would yield up a hint that might shed some light on the mystery. In the meantime, he tried to dismiss trom his mind the perplexing phases of Lamont’s confession. The whole thing was so incongruous: it caused his reason to shrivel up. He stepped from the suburban train, and then another difficulty presented itself. He had not visited the old house on Hudson Street since he closed its doors more than five years ago, and to do so now might result in

complications. With a lack of acumen characteristic o£ many in his profession he had neither rented the property nor offered it for sale, although for sentimentarreasons he had paid the taxes on it through an attorney. AVith this slight exception there was no link that connected Thomas Dean with the ownership of the place. It would be humorous, though embarrassing, if anyone should question his right to enter the place. Too, there

was the ever-present chance, given added importance since Viola Gray a call on him that morning, that someone might recognise him as Paul Forrester. But that, he promptly decided, was a hazard he would have to risk. As he passed a news-stand in the Peiinysylvania station he stopped and stared at a photograph conspicuously displayed on the front page of an afternoon newspaper. Dropping a coin on the stand, he snatched up a paper and walked on. The photograph was of himself as he had appeared several years ago, and evidently it had been exhumed from the newspapers files, where it had reposed since it was first printed at the time of his affair with Beulah Vance. Dean studied the picture as lie walked out of the station. At first lie was impressed only by the CTeat change his appearance had undergone since the picture was taken' then the significance of its repubiication at this late date struck him with stunning torce. While crossing the street, unaware that he was risking life ana limb in SWATS £25“ iin Lament bad confessed to mur dering bad taken 12 photographs from the newspaper’s files, all representing , likeness of men around the age It which Haul Forrester had been at -lm time of the murder, and these he imd *tnkeu to Lamonfs bedside and requested the dying man to identify hf« victim. Without hesitation. Lamont had selected the photograph Of Forrester, thus disposing of , possible doubts, ill the matter. It was the final straw. Dean, blink- ** his eves at the sunlight, asked Urn whole outside world in ot-itp of dementia? Tryin a W get a d grip on his senses, he entered i hotel St down in the lobby, and in ~T,iV of grim fortitude read the article from beginning to end. Until now it had seemed possible ,hat Lamont had made a “istake in the m,me of his victim, but this latest development shattered that theory to b ts It had been far-fetched, anyhow for the collateral tacts had pointed unmis takingly to Paul For- , t i, e dead man. Now the web of perplexities was drawn into an meXTheadyinkgr man had iden«fied him, wafaTu “uncanny; Dean’s mind turned into a lump as he contemplated the situation His r^ -SZSZSSZSSZZtiZi I bed C confession had solved; the mystery of the disappearance of Pau! For tester, who, It was recalled, had

dropped out of sight and become forgotten shortly after a show-girl had instituted a suit against him tor breach of promise. It was also mentioned that the police and the district attorney were at work verifying the various statements made by Lamont, although there appeared to he no doubt of their accuracy. 11l a sort of dogged humour. Dean stuffed the paper into his pocket and walked from the hotel, but not until he had given the picture on the first page another close glance. There was very little likelihood, he thought, of his being recognised as Paul Forrester. True, there was a hazy resemblance, but it would take a keen pair of eyes to see it, and there was no reason why anyone should look for it. It was gratifying, for on the whole he preferred to remain Thomas Dean for the present. He jumped into a taxi and gave the driver the address on Hudson Street. He had promised his mind a rest until he should make some tangible discovery, on which to base his inquiries, but the loose ends of the mystery kept dangling teasingly before his mental vision. This man Lamont evidently was under the impression that he liad committed a murder in the old Hudson Street house. The dying man’s conviction on that point was apparently so strong that he had sought to ease his conscience by making a formal confession. So far there was nothing incongruous about the matter. Lamont might have been labouring under a dying mail’s hallucination, or the murder might have been actually committed; in either event, up to this point his statements were susceptible to logical interpretation. But Lamont had gone further; lie had given his victim’s name as Paul Forrester, and he had supported the identification of the murdered man with a staggering mass of names, dates and circumstances. Yet, even so far it was possible to explain matters without stretching one’s imagination to the snapping point. Lamont might, through some queer mental aberration, have been mistaken in his victim’s identity. The corroborative incidents could possibly be explained in the light of what psychologists called association of ideas, granting that Lamont had heard of Paul Forrester or met him personally. Such a hypothesis was at least within the range of reason. Dean had seen and talked with thousands of people in his life, many of whom he had completely forgotten, and Lamont could have been one of them. But the dying man had not stopped there; he had put the final touch of grotesquerie on the matter by positively identifying Paul Forrester’s likeness from among a dozen photographs of men of similar ages. No amount of sophistry and specious reasoning could evade that argument. Dean’s mind had rounded the circle of incongruities when the taxi stopped. He paid the driver, then lingered on the sidewalk while he contemplated the weather-bitten stucco front of the ol'd house, consisting of three storeys and attic, with three dormer windows projecting from a steeply sloping roof. It was more than five years since he had set foot within, and a queer hesitancy, amounting almost to a dread, seemed to hold him back. To disturb the ghostly memories slum bering in there would be akiu to ail act of profanation. He could picture the quaint furnishings of the rooms, arranged in accordance with his father’s peculiar tastes, a heterogeneous collection gathered from many strange lands. He wondered if tile large stuffed trout was still hanging over the mantel, and what had become of Caesar, the mongrel pup with whom he had romped on the narrow strip of lawn in front of the house. Everywhere, from attic to cellar, he could visualise relics of intimate history. A blue-coated officer at the door caught his eye, and the spell was already an accomplished fact, for it appeared that the police were conducting an investigation inside. He approached the guardian at the door, who brusquely inquired his business and interposed a stalwart form against further progress. It was odd to be treated like that at one’s door, but Dean’s mind was too full of other things to catch the humour of it. He was in a ticklish situation, for how was he to explain his right to enter without letting out the troublesome

fact that his rightful name was Paul Forrester? He was pondering the problem when the door suddenly opened and a broad-shouldered man with astoundingly blue eyes came out so hurriedly that he all but ran into the novelist. “Why, hello, Dean!” he exclaimed briskly, checking his catapulting exit. Dean congratulated himself on his luck. Lieutenant Shane and he had been friends for two years. The detective, a strangely many-sided man, often helped him with technical points in connection with his mystery novels. Shane was not only one of the shrewdest men on the force, but an obliging and likeable sort as well. “Looking for material again, I suppose,” remarked the detective, unconsciously supplying the very subterfuge that had been on the tip of Dean’s tongue when he encountered the policeman. “Well, you’ve come to the right place.” Hurriedly, as he did all things, from consuming a sandwich to catching an express train, the lieutenant looked at his watch. “Just going out for a bite. Come along and I’ll tell you all about it.” Dean had no appetitte, but he accepted the invitation, and they went to a restaurant a short distance down the street. CHAPTER IV. MORE QUESTIONS. “I’m going to take you hack to the house afterward,” said Shane when they had ordered. “You’ll find all the atmosphere you want. I’ve been inhaling it all day. My lungs are full of it. I don’t believe the place has been ventilated since the murder, over five years ago, and when I walked in this morning the air was so thick you could cut it with a knife.” “Nobody living in the house, then?” inquired Dean, pretending ignorance. “Not a soul. The furniture is still there, and it seems a friend of the family has been paying taxes on the property, but the house hasn’t been occupied since young Forrester lived in it.” Dean seemed duly interested. The lieutenant evidently supposed thSt the newspaper account of Lamont’s confession had whetted the novelist’s natural curiosity in matters of that kind, and that he had come to the house to learn the facts at first -hand. As for the taxes, Dean had paid them in cash each y'e'ar, but in such a roundabout way that the payments could not be traced without great difficulty. The lieutenant was keeping up a rapid-fire narrative. “Until last night, when Lamont made his confession, nobody seemed to know what had become of Paul Forrester. As a matter of fact, nobody cared a whole lot. He dropped out of sight after that mix-up with the chorus baby, and that was the last heard of him. The neighbours seemed to think he was dead, as it now appears he was. Since he didn’t leave any relatives, as far as anybody knows, I suppose the State will take charge of the. property.” “Then you don’t doubt Lamont’s story?” asked Dean, as casually as he could. “Why on earth should I? A man doesn’t invent yarns of that kind on his deathbed. Lamont made the confession in the presence of a lawyer and a notary public. He seemed anxious that there shouldn’t be any doubts about the genuineness of it. Anyhow, we’ve already verified most of the details.” “So I understand. Some people have strange hallucinations, though.” “No hallucination in this case. Lamont knew he was about to step into another world,- and he wanted to get the thing off his conscience. He came here from the West to attend texsome business matters. Since he wasn’t feeling very well, he didn't go. to a hotel, but put up at the house of a lawyer, Dennis Littleby, who lives out on Long Island and has been attending to some legal matters for him. It seems Littleby and Lamont have been friends for years; besides, Littleby is one of the few people Lamont knows in New York. He grew worse from day to day, and when he realised he was going to die he told Littleby he wanted to make a confession. Littleby thought he -was out of his mind, and he wasn’t satisfied until a nerve specialist had been called in and pronounced bis friend sane. The old boy knew what he was doing, all right.” “So if seems,” muttered Dean, looking a trifle giddy as he saw the detective eat with a healthy appetite. The last of his theories had collapsed with a crash. If Lamont, as now seemed evident, had made his

confession while of sound mind, then Dean’s fertile imagination could see no explanation whatever. “I phoned Littleby’s house an hour ago,” the lieutenant went on, "and the nurse told me Lamont s life is hanging by a thread. Something queer about that, Dean. The doctor that’s attending him didn’t expect him to live through the night. Lamont seems to be hanging on to life by sheer will power. Usually, when a man hangs on like that, it’s because something is troubling him, something he feels he ought to attend to before he dies.” “What do you suppose it can be?” “You’ve got me there, Dean. In the ordinary course of events, a man in Lamont’s condition would have passed away soon after the confession was off his mind. There would be nothing more to live for after that; the incentive would be gone. Lamont, though, seems to have something else on his mind that won’t permit him to let go of life. He’s worrying about something or other, and that's what

is keeping him alive. If he relaxed completely, he would probably be dead inside a few minutes.” “Haven’t you any idea?” For a moment Shane’s keen blue eyes looked oft into space. “He keeps calling for his daughter. She’s teaching school out in Wichita, Kan. Littleby sent her a telegram when it was seen that her father couldn’t live, and yesterday he received a wire from her saying she was starting for New York immediately. Maybe Lamont has a special reason for wanting to see her before he dies, but I’ve got a hunch it’s something else he’s worrying about.” (To be continued tomorrow.)