Hunt in the Dark

by Q. Patrick

  The sight of the actual hall confirmed this belief. It was scrupulously tidy without being arty or pretentious. There were the usual pot ferns, and on a table by the deserted desk stood a large vase of gladioluses. I wondered if they were the ones which had achieved the remarkable transformation into zinnias.

  By the window was a small wicker cage, in which perched a very yellow canary. I crossed and regarded it with interest.

  As I did so, I heard a vague fluttering sound behind me as though a larger and heavier bird had broken loose. I turned to see a plump woman of about fifty. She was smartly dressed in a frilly, flouncy way—too smartly dressed, I thought. The blue eyes that gazed into mine were pleasant—a little too pleasant. This must be Miss Clymer who spent all her money on clothes and got behind with her rent.

  “Isn’t he a tweetsie?” she crooned at the canary. She smiled coyly. “Were you wanting to see someone?”

  I asked when the desk clerk was likely to return. The plump shoulders shrugged beneath the frills.

  “Poor Jo! He has to do everything. She treats him more like a slave than a nephew. It’s no wonder that—”

  She broke off. I remember Mrs. Bellman’s cryptic remarks about Jo—soft, spineless, no-good Jo.

  The woman was still looking at me, and the blue eyes had hardened “You’re—you’re not taking a room here, I suppose?”

  There was something in the tone of her voice which suggested vaguely that she was advising me against the step.

  “Why—” I began, but she had turned away.

  As she moved toward the passage beyond, she knocked against one of the pot ferns. Out of the corner of my eye, I saw something drop. When Miss Clymer had fluttered out of sight, I bent to pick it up, and, as I did so, I felt a curious sensation— a sensation which seemed far stronger than the occasion warranted. In my hand I held a withered flower. I am no botanist, but I needed no expert knowledge to tell me that the dried-up scrap in my hand had once been a zinnia. I glanced across at the vase of gladioluses. There was no question now as to the normality of Mrs. Bellman’s eyesight. Someone had been trying to frighten her, and that someone, in removing the zinnias, had accidentally dropped one of them into the pot fern.

  I was just about to make a closer inspection when I heard footsteps on the stairs behind me. Two young people were entering the hall. The boy was dark with a smooth, sallow face. The girl was a striking blonde—young, intense, and rather bold-looking. They were talking animatedly. At least, the boy was.

  “We perforated a frog’s viscera this afternoon,” he was saying. “The experiment was a flop.” He glanced at the letter rack and added, “No mail. Hell!”

  “No mail. Hell!” repeated the girl with a glance at me, which made me feel uncomfortably conscious of my advancing years. “Come on. If we’re late for dinner again, the old bag will say there’s nothing but lunch left-overs.”

  They disappeared down the corridor, the dark boy talking incessantly.

  Mr. Jay who makes smells about the house, I thought. And Miss Davenport who paints her face and runs in and out of men’s bedrooms. Ever since I had found that withered zinnia, the boarders at No. 12 Potter Street had taken on an intense interest for me.

  I lighted a cigarette and waited patiently. Soon there was a slow shuffling in the passage, and a tall, spectral man shambled in. His graying hair straggled across his low forehead, and his cadaverous cheeks moved slightly as though he were chewing something with toothless gums. Mrs. Bellman’s nephew, Jo, looked much older and far more disintegrated than his aunt. So far, he was the only untidy thing I had seen in No. 12.

  “Is Mrs. Bellman in?” I asked.

  Instantly, a furtive expression came into his faded eyes. He pushed back the hair with a limp hand. “Sure, boy, sure. She’s upstairs. She’ll be down soon.”

  As he spoke, there was a sharp clatter of feminine heels on the stairs. I glanced around to see Mrs. Bellman herself, very brisk and landlady like. She looked like a perfectly normal, busy woman.

  “Just a minute, Doctor Westlake,” she called. “I will be right with you.”

  I saw her turn down a passage and then heard a door open. For a while there was silence, then once more I heard the footsteps hurrying toward me.

  When Mrs. Bellman reappeared, she was an utterly different person. Her face was pale, her back stooped. She ran to my side and gripped my arm. She seemed utterly unconscious of her nephew’s presence.

  “Doctor Westlake. Thank God you’re here. Quick, quick!”

  She had turned and was almost dragging me after her down the passage. As we passed the stairs, I heard a woman’s voice, high-pitched and querulous, calling: “Mrs. Bellman, Mrs. Bellman.” But the landlady paid no attention. Her grip on my arm tightened as we turned a corner and drew up before a door. She pushed it open and ran in.

  “Doctor Westlake. Is—it there? Can you see it?” She was pointing to a table by the window.

  I do not know what it was I had been expecting to see there, but it could hardly have been more bizarre than the actual truth. A small electric cooking plate stood on the table. I could see it was red hot, and on it perched the most ludicrously unlikely thing—a bowl of goldfish.

  I say “ludicrous” because that was my first reaction. It did not last, however. Whether it was some of Mrs. Bellman’s panic being transferred to me, I do not know. But suddenly the bowl, that neat room, the whole scrupulously tidy house seemed charged with a macabre, nightmarish quality.

  I stood staring at the cheap, bubble-shaped bowl. The water must have been very hot for the fish lay flat and listless on the surface—all except one. It cambered blindly about—round and round in helpless, desperate circles. Then it lurched, and its fins flapped and collapsed as it showed its silver belly and floated up to the top of the bowl like a thin strip of silver gilt paper.

  Mrs. Bellman was watching it, fascinated, I moved forward and snapped off the switch.

  “Lucky I came,” I said. “There’s no question of your seeing things now, Mrs. Bellman.”

  The small eyes flashed to mine. “I don’t know, Doctor Westlake. You see, I can’t be sure I didn’t do it myself.”

  I gazed at her in surprise.

  “Yes. I was in here just a moment before I went upstairs. Why—why couldn’t I have done it? Why couldn’t I have done all these things and not known it? Lately, I’ve had almost too much to—”

  She broke off, just as she had broken off the day before in my office. By a supreme effort of will, she seemed able to drive the whole matter from her mind.

  I took the withered flower from my pocket and handed it to her. “Listen, Mrs. Bellman, I found this in one of the pot ferns.

  It’s obvious that someone in this house is trying to scare you. Don’t you see? They would have taken away these goldfish, only we came in too quickly.” Then a thought struck me. “By the way, who was the woman that called to you?”

  Mrs. Bellman frowned. “What woman?”

  “Just now someone called ‘Mrs. Bellman’ down the stairs. I wonder why she chose that particular moment.”

  “I didn’t hear any voice,” murmured the landlady wearily. “I guess I was too worked up.”

  I racked my brain trying to recall the exact tone of that voice. If it could be recognized, I felt, the mystery of No. 12 Potter Street might be well on its way to a solution. Mrs. Bellman had crossed to the table. I followed her.

  “You’re sure those fish are yours?” I asked.

  “Why, of course.” She peered at them. “I only bought them the other day. They’re the sort everyone can get, but—” She paused, staring at me in surprise. “Come to think of it, I didn’t have one with that black spot on it.”

  I smiled. “Well, that proves it once for all. Whoever’s playing these tricks on you bought a canary like yours and a bowl of goldfish. They knew you wouldn’t look at them closely. Then afterward they intended to replace your original ones.”

>   She turned on me like a flash. “You mean—it is one of the lodgers? Then they’ll still have them—my goldfish. We can find who it is.”

  “Too late,” I grunted. “I’m afraid your goldfish will be as dead and gone as these by now. My suggestion is that you call in the police.”

  She looked like a brave little general after a lost battle. “There’ll be no police here with their dirty boots,” she snapped. “I’ve the reputation of the house to consider.”

  It was obviously no good pressing the point. Besides, as far as the authorities were concerned, there was nothing so particularly important about the murder of a canary and a few goldfish. I changed the subject and explained my plan of renting an apartment for a month. I saw an expression of relief pass across her face, but it quickly changed to one of doubt.

  “Ye-es, certainly,” she said at length. “I have the best apartment vacant. That is, I’ve been making some alterations. The men have only just stopped working. The rooms aren’t exactly ordinary, but you’re a doctor. You’ll understand.”

  Before I had time to question this curious remark, she had produced a key and was moving to the door.

  “I always keep this apartment locked,” she murmured as we ascended the stairs. “You see, I don’t want the boarders running in and out.”

  Before a room on the top floor she paused, and, as she did so, a door farther down the corridor opened.

  “Oh, Mrs. Bellman.”

  “What is it, Mr. Washer?”

  I turned to see a man standing in the passage. He was middle-aged and rather plump. His face was very brown but he looked puffy and not particularly healthy. He wore a dark-blue shirt and a white tie. His gestures were curiously mincing.

  “There’ve been no clean towels today, Mrs. Bellman. That’s the second time this week.”

  Mr. Washer was eying me with strange interest. A soft, rather feminine hand fingered the tie.

  “All right, all right,” Mrs. Bellman said rather testily. “I’ll have some sent up.”

  “Thank you. Thank you indeed.” Mr. Washer was still looking at me. He glanced once more over his shoulder as he retired into his room. So this was the gentleman who played his piano while the rest of the world was sleeping.

  “It’s my best really,” said Mrs. Bellman as we entered the apartment. “But the rent will be reasonable—to you, Doctor Westlake. There’s an outside phone, too, in case you are expecting calls from your patients. With the other rooms you have to call down to the switchboard in the vestibule.”

  It was a remarkably luxurious suite of rooms—far larger and more modern than one would have expected in this otherwise rather modest establishment. Even so, I did not like it. There was something cold and depressing about its very modernity. As the landlady closed the door, I saw to my surprise that there were two heavy iron bolts on the inside.

  Mrs. Bellman was pointing to an untidy heap of bricks and mortar in the fireplace.

  “The workmen have been opening up the hearth,” she explained apologetically. “We used to use it as an outlet for hot-air heat, but we’ve changed to steam now and I think an open fireplace makes a room so much more cheery—particularly as it’s one of those wide, old-fashioned chimneys.”

  I nodded absently, thinking it would take more than a fireplace to cheer up this particular room. As I tried to analyze what it was that depressed me, I noticed an enormous electric fan hanging down from the ceiling above my head. It was of the type that usually is seen only in large halls or workshops. The shaft was thick and strong. The blades looked as large as an airplane propeller. There was something cruel and relentless about it.

  Mrs. Bellman switched it on, and it stirred the musty, prisonlike air. Even so, it was still stuffy. I crossed to open one of the windows and noticed that they were guarded with thin iron bars.

  As I looked out, I found that I commanded a close view of the house opposite. I could see inside one of the windows across the way. A little boy was eating his supper.

  Instantly, my mind flashed to the bolts on the door, to the conversation I had had the day before with Cobb. One of the neighbor’s children had been frightened by something he had seen in a window at No. 12—some strange misshapen creature with a bluish-purple face. My instinct told me at once which window it had been.

  Mrs. Bellman was laughing—again, that strange, humorless laugh. “This apartment has been rather a problem. Every one in the house wants it.”

  Something in the tone of her voice made me turn. “They do, do they?” I asked.

  “Miss Clymer says she wants it because there’s a roof garden attached and she likes the sun, though Heaven knows how she supposes she can pay the extra rent. Mr. Washer wants his sister to come and live with him here and thinks there’d be more room for his grand piano. Mr. Jay thinks he could use that back room for his chemistry experiments. I believe the Browns want it, and so does Miss Davenport. They all want it, but they’re not going to have it.”

  “Don’t let me interfere with any other plans,” I said hurriedly. “After all, I’ll only be staying a month.”

  “You couldn’t stay for longer,” she said bluntly. “My previous tenant is coming back. At least, I think so. It’s to have things brightened up for her that I’m getting the hearth fixed.”

  At this point, a sleek ginger cat entered the room, its bushy tail erect. It ran toward Mrs. Bellman with a little miaow. Then it jumped onto a chair and started to claw at the front of her dress.

  “Go away, Hilda—shoo.” The tone was sharp but not unkind.

  As she spoke, Mrs. Bellman tried to tilt the chair to dislodge the cat. Neither of them budged.

  “I’d forgotten,” she said, as she picked up the cat and put it outside. “All the furniture is fixed to the floor. I hope you won’t find it inconvenient. I can’t have things altered—not if my previous tenant is coming back.”

  “And who,” I asked, “used to live here?”

  Mrs. Bellman glanced at me sharply and threw a swift look at the half-open door. “None of the others know, but I can tell you since you’re a doctor. A woman called Mrs. Salt rented the apartment over a year ago. It was for her stepdaughter.” Her voice lowered. “She was—afflicted. You know, doctor, one of those children that have to be kept out of sight.”

  I sat on the arm of one of the immovable chairs and lighted a cigarette.

  “’Yes,” continued Mrs. Bellman, “Agnes, her name is. She’s fifteen but you couldn’t tell how old she is. It’s—it’s just like an animal. She can’t talk, can’t do anything for herself. She even has to be fed by hand. And sometimes she’s difficult—destructive. That’s why the furniture had to be fastened down. Mrs. Salt had that great big electric fan put in because the doctor said the heat made Agnes worse. It’s a terrible thing—terrible.”

  “But she ought to have been in an institution!” I exclaimed.

  Mrs. Bellman nodded. “That’s what I always said. But there was something in her father’s will. He was rich and he wanted his wife to give the child a chance. They spared no expense, but after all—”

  “Wasn’t it rather hard on the other boarders?” I asked.

  “Oh, they didn’t know. You see, the girl didn’t make any sound—not even when she had one of her fits.” Mrs. Bellman crossed to the wall and indicated a dumb-waiter. “We sent the meals up in this. The others just thought there was an invalid here. Of course, Agnes never went out.”

  “But how did she get air?” I asked, moving to the open window.

  Mrs. Bellman indicated a door. “There’s a special roof garden made for her up there. Up those steps.

  “Miss Furnivall—the elder one—she used to live here with her. She acted as a sort of nurse. Mrs. Salt never came here herself. It was as though she couldn’t bear the sight of the child. And I don’t blame her.”

  Mrs. Bellman kicked a piece of brick off the carpet.

  “And she’s returning—this—this unfort
unate creature?” I asked.

  “Yes. I heard from Mrs. Salt’s lawyer a week or two ago. She had taken Agnes to Arizona for some sort of treatment, and he told me that she was coming back next month.”

  Mrs. Bellman had crossed to draw the thick green curtains. “She paid the rent here for three months after she left. Didn’t want anyone else in the apartment, she said. So you see why I couldn’t let any of the others have it. But the three months are up now and she can’t object to you—especially since you’re a doctor.” She moved to the door. “I’ll send Jo up to clean the fireplace.”

  “Thanks.”

  Mrs. Bellman had paused. Her voice was curiously altered. “I’m glad you’re staying, young man. Somehow, with you here, it’ll seem safer. I’ve been thinking out what you said about things that have been happening. Someone is trying to frighten me out of here. I’m practically sure.” She stood on the threshold, very small and determined. “But they’re not going to succeed—not if they have to kill me.”

  With this remark, she was gone. I heard the hard, mirthless laugh echoing along the passage outside.

  IV

  THE BOARDERS LOOK ON

  The boarders at No. 12 Potter Street had dined early, it seemed. When I went downstairs in search of food, I had the dining room and one silent Negro waiter to myself. There was a dreary, deserted air about the white-clothed tables. It lingered on in the passages as I returned to my room.

  Jo had cleaned up the hearth in my absence. Someone had dusted the place, too, and made the bed. I was glad to see that my bags had arrived from the Regent Hotel. I started to open them and sort things out. The steady whir of the huge electric fan annoyed me, but I did not switch it off, for the night was close, and the stale, musty odor still lingered in the air.