The House that Stood Still

by A. E. van Vogt

  They reached the courthouse without incident, and were admitted at once to Howland’s private office. The district attorney stood up from his chair, and regarded Mistra very deliberately. His gaze shifted over her sleekly-dressed body, down to her costly shoes, up to her mink neckpiece and her expensive hat. A smile of satisfaction spread over his face. Then his mood changed. He said abruptly, “Miss Lanett, were you the mistress of Newton Tannahill?”

  Mistra looked surprised, then amused. “No!” She said firmly.

  “If that is the case,” Howland said grimly, “how do you explain the fact that every month, since you were first employed, the estate has been paying you $12,000, a total of $144,000 a year, for nearly five years? A considerable salary, you must admit, for a secretary who was originally hired to catalogue an art collection.”

  Stephens half-turned to see what Mistra’s reaction was. He was thinking, “Yes, how do you explain it?” And then the figures penetrated.

  His calm dissolved. He had been like a man dangling over an abyss, uncertain of his position, eager to hold on to what he had and to balance himself somehow through a complex situation. In a curious fashion he had come to believe in everything. It was all there in his mind, the conviction that a group of immortal men and women had lived for centuries in an ageless house that stood on a high hill overlooking the timeless ocean. He knew that they had an advanced science and that they were wealthy.

  Abstract knowledge—already it had inspired him to do things, but only with the top of his mind, thinking in substantially legal terms.

  The naming of her income struck deep. One hundred and forty-four thousand dollars a year! He was hot a man who normally thought in terms of money. But this hit him hard.

  As from a great distance he grew aware that Howland was saying. “—confident Miss Lanett will realize she must cooperate with the authorities. I’m sure she never dreamed that what started out as a unique case of deception would end in murder. Naturally, she is perfectly aware of what I am leading up to. Aren’t you, Miss Lanett?”

  The young woman said, “I haven’t the faintest idea what you are talking about. And I deny all your charges and innuendoes, whatever they may be. I know nothing about the death of John Ford.”

  Howland looked impatient. “Come, come, Miss Lanett. You had better realize your situation. I’m still friendly toward you. I’m still prepared to make a deal whereby no charges will be pressed against you for being, say, an accessory before and after the fact in a conspiracy that has already resulted in murder.”

  Stephens decided it was time for him to speak. He swallowed hard, made a last effort to adjust himself, and said, “What do you want from Miss Lanett?” He grew calmer, more in control. He went on: “In view of your questions, I would like to know one thing: How did Newton Tannahill die?”

  Howland was looking at Mistra satirically. “Yes, Miss Lanett, how did he die?”

  Mistra stirred, but spoke casually.

  “Heart failure. Doctor de las Ciengas will be able to tell you better than I. He examined the body when it was in the undertaker’s being prepared for burial And, since that was what I was told, I just took it for granted that that was what the New York death certificate said.”

  “Oh, yes,” said Howland. “The New York State death certificate. Has anybody any idea where it is? Has anybody, in fact, ever seen it?”

  He broke off with a wave of his great hand. “Never mind that now. Miss Lanett!”

  There was a pointedness in his voice, that made Stephens sit up. He saw that Mistra had caught the change of tone also. She was stiffening.

  “Yes?” she said.

  “Have you any objection to meeting Arthur Tannahill, the heir to the estate?”

  Mistra hesitated. “I have no desire to,”’she said finally.

  Howland pushed himself out of his chair. “Is it possible,” he said, “that your reluctance to meet him face to face could have anything to do with the fact that this morning when he opened the grave of Newton Tannahill, we found the coffin empty.”

  He came around the desk. “If you have no great objection,” he said sarcastically, “we’ll drive up to the Grand House right now and I will introduce you to Mr. Tannahill. Shall we go?”

  Stephens, who had been thinking of the implications, said quickly, “I’ll call Mr. Tannahill and tell him the situation.”

  Howland scowled at him. “You will tell him nothing. You start trying to warn him, and we’ll have a police escort up there.” He grinned. “I want this to be a surprise.”

  Stephens said in genuine anger, “That’s the damnedest thing I ever heard. Are you sure you know what you’re doing?”

  “Never,” said Howland firmly, “been more sure in my life.”

  Stephens controlled himself, and said in a tense voice: “For heaven’s sake, man, use your head. This is a Tannahill you’re planning to treat in this arbitrary fashion. What about fingerprints? Surely they can be checked and this whole matter settled.”

  He felt uneasy the instant he had spoken. If Mistra had told him the truth, then the fingerprints of the uncle and the nephew would logically be the same. It seemed incredible that they had not thought of such a possibility. If they had, then it was unlikely that fingerprints would be available.

  Howland said, “We’ve checked with all the usual agencies, and none has a record of the fingerprints of Newton Tannahill. Since only official prints would have a legal standing, that is conclusive for us.”

  Stephens could not decide whether or not the news relieved him. “Nevertheless,” he said doggedly, “let me call Mr. Tannahill and make an appointment. I’m sure we can settle the whole incident without any unnecessary rudeness.”

  Howland shook his head. “To hell with that!” he said thickly. “Everybody’s equal before the law, and there’ll be no favorites. Are you corning, or shall I have a policeman hold you here till Miss Lanett and I get up to the Grand House?”

  As he preceded the man down the steps a few moments later, Stephens was thinking: “This is the result of Howland losing the agency for the estate. He’s hitting back as hard as he can.”

  At least there was one good thing about the situation: For the time being, his own and Tannahill’s interests almost coincided.

  XII

  Old was the house. For a thousand years or more it had crouched on its mountain, and looked down at the unchanging sea. And like the sea it had no purpose, no thought, no desire. As the days of the years went by, outward change was wrought upon its basic structure, but only outward change: New decorations, new efforts at cleanliness, new interior arrangements. Again and again the trimmings were renewed and altered. Different designs of gardens were conceived and laboriously achieved to give it an ever greener, more cultivated setting. Masses of earth were moved, landscaped, left for years, and then removed. Trees were planted and lived and died or were felled. The house neither saw nor felt nor cared nor changed. Through all the years it sat solid on the solid earth, a lifeless edifice of marble and mystery.

  It was an imposing, single story house, and it stood on a high hill. Stephens had often thought that what saved it from the attention of the people who passed by on the road below was that its most outstanding feature was hidden by a barrier of trees. He had seen the steps on his one trip up to the house years before, and he was still impressed.

  As the car climbed higher, he looked back. The sun was shining slantingly down onto a vast body of water that began just west of where the town ended. To the right and left, the suburbs of Almirante spread into a series of hills that were green with growth. Far to the south there was a twin silvery gleam where the railway came out of the brush and concealing valleys, and turned gradually to the Pacific.

  The car made a sharp turn around a clump of trees, leveled off on the knob of the mountain, and there was the house.

  The first look brought Stephens upright in his seat He had forgotten the full effect of the steps. Or perhaps the house hadn’t meant so much t
o him the last time he had seen it. The hedge of trees must have been planted with the deliberate intent of making the memory grow vague. It hid the steps. Passersby could gaze up over the trees and see what looked like a wide-fronted, one-story house. Not a single step was visible from farther down, and there were (Stephens counted them meticulously) twenty-five steps altogether. They ran the full front of the house, a hundred feet at least, and they reached up to a broad marble terrace which centered on a thick glass double door.

  The steps were of marble. The house was made of highly polished slabs of the same material, and its whiteness was an illusion of distance. Seen from nearby, it had a greenish tinge underlying a shiny gray white.

  Stephens followed Mistra and Howland out of the car, climbed slowly behind them up to the terrace, and stood by as Howland rang the bell.

  A minute, and some five rings later, there was still no reply.

  Stephens was the first to leave the door. He walked along the terrace conscious of the house and of the silence. A faint breeze touched his cheeks, and that brought a memory of the shock he had in Rowland’s office, and brought the wonder if a thousand years before a woman —still living—had stood here on this undying marble and felt the caress of a similar breeze on just such a timeless California winter afternoon as this.

  It wouldn’t have been called California then, of course. That was before the Spaniards with their Baja and Alta California designations, before the Aztecs came, perhaps before even the half-mythical Toltecs.

  Stephens gazed into the distance below, where the green land touched the bright, placid sea . . . For almost fifty generations the house had looked from its eminence into those depths, and watched strange men and women come up from the remote, invisible lands beyond the horizon. Stephens felt a sudden melancholy, a deadly envy, a reluctance to grow old and die, while the immortal house continued its vigil here under the eternally warm skies of California.

  Gloomily, he peered down over the edge of the marble terrace. The sides of the steps were polished to almost the same smoothness as their surface. But here and there small chips had been broken off. He wondered if they were products of ancient battles: flung stones, the impact of arrow heads.

  He forgot that. What was there about this place? How did the house help people to live forever? He knelt, and reaching down, pulled loose one of the marble chips. He put it in his pocket, intending to have it analyzed. As he did so, he turned—and saw that Mistra was standing no more than a dozen feet away. Their eyes met; Stephens looking away shamefacedly, but not before he’d seen that she was amused.

  The moment was saved for Stephens when the door opened and Tannahill’s voice spoke to Howland. Stephens hurried forward. “Mr. Tannahill,” he said grimly, “I wanted to call you, but I was threatened with arrest if I did so.”

  Tannahill looked at him, eyes narrowed, then at Howland. “Better come in, all of you,” he said finally. He added: “I was taking a nap, and I haven’t yet secured any servants. This way.”

  Stephens was the last to enter. He found himself in a large center hallway. The floors were brightly polished. There was a stairhead at the far end, that led down to a landing from which the steps went down at right angles out of his line of vision. A dozen oak doors opened off from the hallway, six on either side. It was to the nearest of these doors that Tannahill directed them.

  Stephens lingered behind the others long enough to whisper to Tannahill, “Things are bad.”

  Tannahill nodded. “I expected it.”

  In the living room, they all sat down except Tannahill. His gaze fastened on Mistra. “Ah,” he said, “my uncle’s secretary, Mistra Lanett—the young lady who resigned without notice just before my arrival. Why did you do it?”

  Howland interrupted. “I can give a possible explanation of her action,” he said. “There is, I think, reason to believe that Miss Lanett was the mistress of—uh—your uncle. A few years ago, she was in effect cast off by him. And what she did to inconvenience you was no doubt her only method of paying back—your uncle.”

  Tannahill said, “Let’s stop this song and dance. Have you opened the grave?”

  “Yes.”

  “What did you find?”

  “The coffin was empty.”

  “Are you going to lay a charge of murder against me?”

  “Yes,” said Howland. “Yes, I am.”

  “You fool!” said Tannahill. But Stephens saw that he had grown paler.

  There was a silence.

  Stephens did not move or speak. He had no feeling that Tannahill had made a mistake in forcing the issue into the open. No one knew better than he that Howland was on the rampage, and he had an idea the district attorney was surprised at the sharp way in which his purpose had been attacked from the moment they entered the house.

  He watched Tannahill limp over to a chair and sink into it. Across from him, Howland leaned back in his chair, looked at Mistra and said:

  “Well, Miss Lanett, are you prepared to play ball with my office?”

  Tannahill glanced up, too. A touch of color was coming into his cheeks. “I’d like to ask Miss Lanett some questions.”

  Howland said roughly, “You can cross-examine her on the witness stand. All I want from her now—”

  That was where Stephens interrupted. “Howland!” He spoke piercingly. “Let me understand clearly the nature of the charge against Mr. Tannahill. Are you going to accuse him of the murder of his uncle and of John Ford? Or only of John Ford?”

  Howland pondered that briefly. “We’ll make our charge at the time of the arrest,” he said.

  “I suppose,” said Stephens grimly, “that the motives of the former agent of the Tannahill estate might be misunderstood when, in the capacity of district attorney, he brings charges against his old client. You are prepared to have such a misconstruction placed upon your action?”

  It was evident that Howland was not a man who worried about the future too much. He waved one hand impatiently. “Naturally,” he said, “the arrest will not be made until our case against Mr. Tannahill is complete. We are waiting verification from the hospital where he convalesced as to his whereabouts on May 3rd of this year. And there are a couple of other things. I warn Mr. Tannahill, however, that he had better make no attempt to leave the city.”

  Tannahill climbed to his feet. He looked tired. “It seems to me that Mr. Howland is making a mistake in trying to get to the top without the support of the local, shall I say, financial interests which I am sure he could obtain if he went at it the right way. One thing I can tell him—” his eyes stared straight into Howland’s, “If he takes the plunge and lays this—” he hesitated— “this ridiculous charge against me, he’ll find himself in a fight where there are no holds barred.”

  He finished quietly, “And now, goodbye, Mr. Howland. I shall no doubt be seeing you again.”

  Howland bowed ironically, “I’m sure of it,” he said. He stood up, and glanced at Mistra. “Are you coming, Miss Lanett?”

  The woman came swiftly over to Stephens. “I’ll drive Howland down, then come back here and pick you up.”

  She didn’t wait for Stephens to agree. She turned and walked toward the door. She and Howland went out. Stephens looked around, and saw that Tannahill was watching him.

  Tannahill and himself and the house—to Stephens for the moment the house was almost as great a factor as the human beings. He sat down and let himself become aware of its moods. No sound came, nor manifestation. The marble house stood quiet through one more day of its long existence, undisturbed by the breathing and the life of its inhabitants. In a thousand years it had proved itself immune to such minor irritations.

  Tannahill broke the silence. “What was that about Howland having been the former agent of the estate?”

  When Stephens had explained, Tannahill sat for a long time with his lips pursed; finally: “Men, generally, do not like to feel that they are being bought. But don’t be annoyed if I tantalize Howland by appearing to of
fer him the local agency again. It won’t happen, you understand. Neither Howland nor I would trust each other after this incident. But the possibility of regaining the rather considerable income might have an effect on him where an outright offer would be repulsed.”

  Stephens made no comment. He wasn’t so sure that Howland wouldn’t grab at an outright offer. He said quietly, “Mr. Tannahill, have you any idea why a man would want to pretend to die, give up a huge inheritance tax, and then move back into the estate pretending to be his nephew?”

  Tannahill said, “Don’t talk nonsense. I have a theory, if that’s what you mean. It seems obvious that I was put into the grave because my uncle’s body was not available.” He leaned forward, earnestly. “What other logical explanation can there be? His murder started the whole train of events. Whoever did this had to get him legally buried without any suspicion of murder. So they got my unconscious body out of the hospital and substituted it Apparently there was a resemblance. Since I was unconscious, I was not expected to remember the incident.”

  It was startlingly plausible. Stephens said cautiously, “We might start building a case on that basis. It’s worth trying.”

  Tannahill was somber. “What about Miss Lanett?”

  Stephens hesitated, then: “As your uncle’s secretary, she will undoubtedly be a key witness. I’m not so much worried about what she will actually say as about the facts that may be brought out in connection with her position in the house, her obvious wealth, and so on.”

  “I see,” said Tannahill thoughtfully.

  Stephens was apologetic. “I’m sorry. Things are certainly working against you.”

  Tannahill stood, intent and grim. He said carefully, “I have an idea what this Lanett woman wants, and I’ll do it if necessary.” His voice tightened. “I want to make it clear to you, Stephens, that there is nothing I am not prepared to do. I learned from reading into the past history of my family that a bold, desperate man does not set limits on his actions in a crisis.”