The Service Flat
Bill Knox
Marion Lister was thirty, brunette, attractive rather than good-looking, and lived alone in her small, top-floor service flat, one of three situated within the house in Garroway Court, a quiet, still reasonably fashionable part of Glasgow. She worked nine till five, five days a week, as private secretary to an advertising consultant.
That meant that from nine till five the flat should have been locked and empty… Marion Lister did her own housework.
Yet it was three weeks now since the small things had suddenly begun to show. The trace of cigarette ash, the telephone receiver replaced the wrong way round, a cushion rumpled, all the other minute, personal details which shrieked only one message.
Someone was using her flat while she was out. Nothing taken, nothing damaged…but Marion Lister had begun to know the pulsating terror of coming home and putting the key in her own doorlock, the concentrated fear that one evening the flat wouldn’t be empty when she went in.
“All right, so you say you can’t call the police.” Her friend Vi Taylor shrugged as they turned off the rain-puddled road and walked up the short driveway to the house. “Ever thought of staying off work for a day and just waiting to see if anyone comes in? Now, don’t look at me like that – I’m just joking. Trying to, anyway!”
“I tried that.” Marion Lister’s voice was quiet, resigned. “I waited, all day. Nothing happened. That’s why I invited you home tonight – to talk about it to somebody who’d listen. Vi, I went to work as usual the next day. When I came home at night, it had happened again.”
They went into the big gloomy hall with its old-fashioned wallpaper and dark-stained woodwork. An elderly woman gave a curt, barely friendly nod of recognition as they went past, then turned back to talk to the stockily built young man by her side.
“Neighbours?” Vi Taylor glanced back as they climbed the stairs. The young man had gone out, the woman was returning to her task of polishing the heavy brass palm-pots which decorated the entrance area.
“Mrs. Johns, the caretaker. And her son Danny – he’s an engineer, on night shift. They live in the basement.” Marion Lister searched her bag for her key as they reached the last flight of steps and neared her door.
“He’s too young for me.” Her friend gave a chuckle, then followed her in as the door was opened. “Well, what do we do? Try under the bed?” She sighed, touched her companion lightly on the arm, and shook her head. “Sorry. That wasn’t funny.”
“Just stay here.” Swiftly, systematically, Marion Lister checked through the flat…the tiny kitchenette and bathroom, the bedroom, the combined living-room and lounge. When she finished, she trembled a little as she showed her friend a small blue china ashtray.
“This morning, last thing before I went out, I stubbed a cigarette in this. Now it’s clean.”
“You’re sure?” Vi Taylor frowned. “Maybe somebody had a reason for being in. Or maybe you made a mistake.”
“Nobody had a reason. And the stub was there.”
“Who’s got a passkey? Mrs. Johns?”
“Just Mrs. Johns.”
“Then let’s talk to her,” decided her friend.
* * *
Mrs. Johns was still polishing when they reached the foot of the stairs. She listened, her face growing stonier by the moment.
“You told me this once before, Miss Lister.” She gave a sniff of sheer disbelief. “I told you then – nobody’s been in your place. Unless you’re suggestin’ that Danny or me—”
“I’m just trying to find out—”
“And I’m just tellin’ you!” Hands on hips, Mrs. Johns glared back at her. “Nobody calls me a thief – not me or my son.”
She broke off as the main door opened. The woman who came in first was in her late sixties, grey-haired, walking slowly with the aid of a stick. She gave them a vacant smile, and headed towards the door at the end of the corridor. The blonde, plain-faced girl who followed swept them with young, sullen eyes as she passed.
“I’m sorry, Mrs. Johns. Perhaps there’s a mistake,” Marion Lister broke off the incipient battle.
“Huh.” Mrs. Johns gave another sniff.
“What about these two?” As they turned away, Vi nudged her companion and nodded towards the women going into the ground floor flat. “Asked them?”
Marion Lister nodded. “Miss Congreave couldn’t climb the stairs on her own. The girl is her niece, Anna – Anna Lewis. She’s stupid or lazy, I don’t know which. They said they knew nothing.”
“That just leaves the flat on the middle floor.”
“I haven’t spoken to them yet.” Marion Lister pursed her lips. “But I will. Now. They’re a man called Rowan and his wife. He’s a violinist – plays in a theatre orchestra. She says she’s an invalid – floats around most of the time in a kimono.”
Mrs. Rowan answered the doorbell. Thin, middle-aged, blonde hair dark at the roots, she wrapped her bright yellow silk kimono around her while Marion Lister repeated her story.
“Well, I haven’t heard anything.” She gave a faint smirk of disbelief. “Charlie!”
Charlie Rowan was in his forties. He came to the door dressed in dinner jacket and black tie, ready to leave for work.
“The show starts in half an hour,” he explained. “No, I’m like Jean. Can’t help you. Haven’t heard or seen anything.”
They thanked him and headed back up the stairs. From below, Jean Rowan’s stage whisper to her husband reached their ears.
“Time she got married and had something more to occupy her mind.”
* * *
“I’m not saying she’s right,” said Vi Taylor later, as they washed up after a gloomy meal. “But, Marion, you could be imagining it. If you had a holiday, got away from work for a spell…”
“Vi, I’m not going mad. It’s really happening.” Marion Lister drained the last of the washing-up water from the sink, and lit a cigarette with shaking hands.
Her friend shrugged. “Well, then, it must be somebody who is able to watch every morning and make sure you’ve left for work. Look, what about the old trick of gumming a piece of thread across the bottom of your door when you go out? If the thread’s broken when you come back, you’ll know you’ve had a visitor.”
For Marion Lister, any idea was better than none. Next morning, as she left for work, she gummed a small piece of dark thread across her door, low down.
She came home that evening, the thread paramount in her mind. But Mrs. Johns blocked her way in the ill-lit hallway, a bewildered Miss Congreave by her side.
“It’s a disgrace, that’s what it is,” declared the caretaker, the previous evening’s clash forgotten in her excitement. “You’ll never guess! That girl Anna just upped and left poor old Miss Congreave. Packed her case and nipped off while the poor old soul was out for a walk. Nipped off without a soul seein’ her!”
“You’ve no idea where she’s gone, Miss Congreave?” Marion Lister tried to muster suitable sympathy.
“No note, no warnin’, just nipped off...” Mrs. Johns broke off as, feet loud on the stairway, Charlie Rowan clattered down from the first floor. Halfway towards them he turned and waved up towards the stairs. “Bye, Jean.”
They caught a brief glimpse of the yellow kimono flicking back into the flat above, then heard the door close.
“Heard about Anna Lewis, Mr. Rowan?” demanded Mrs. Johns.
“You told me yourself,” reminded Rowan. “Terribly sorry – I’m late. Conductor doesn’t like it.”
He dashed out of the building.
When Marion Lister finally reached her top floor flat, the thread across the door was broken. Her visitor had been back – but she felt a sudden, savage joy at the sight. This was her proof – proof beyond denial.
Or was it? Couldn’t others say she’d faked it all? Psychiat
rists had a name for that kind of behaviour…
The next morning Marion Lister rose at her usual hour. She dressed, made breakfast, washed up, and then, as usual, went downstairs and out of the building, heading in the direction of the local bus stop.
But, just short of the stop, she turned off the main road. Five minutes later she walked along the lane which ran behind Garroway Court, sneaked in through the back entrance to the house, crept on stockinged feet through the empty hall and up the stairs and, moments later, was inside her flat.
After an hour, the telephone rang.
She ignored it.
Ten minutes later, she heard the sound of a key in the lock and darted behind the shelter of the floor-length window drapes.
Cautiously, Danny Johns entered the room, closed the door behind him, and began to look round.
“Danny?” She stepped into view when he was only a few feet away.
“Heck!” The caretaker’s son gulped. “You’re home, then?”
“Something you didn’t expect.” Marion Lister eyed him warily. He stood between her and the telephone, and somehow she was beginning to doubt the wisdom of what she’d accomplished. “Has it been you, Danny – all along, I mean?”
Danny Johns flushed. “Me? You mean, me pokin’ my nose in while you’re—” He gave a growl. “Look, I’m here because my Ma sent me up. She thought she heard a noise, and what with the fuss you’ve been makin’ she told me to check. Wait a minute.”
He opened the door and gave a shout. In a moment, Mrs. Johns had joined him.
“You!” The caretaker’s eyebrows formed twin question marks.
“Hidin’ behind the curtains, Ma,” grunted her son. “Popped out like a ruddy jack-in-the-box and started off at me.”
“I didn’t know—” Marion Lister wasn’t allowed to finish.
“Hidin’ and spyin’ and makin’ trouble! I’ve heard of women like you!” Mrs. Johns was furious in her rage. But, disgust on his face, her son pulled her away. They went out, the door banged shut, and Marion Lister collapsed into a chair, close to tears.
Moments later, she rose again as the doorbell chimed.
“Mr. Rowan!”
Charlie Rowan, in off-duty sports shirt and corduroy slacks, shifted awkwardly. “I…that is, I heard the noise from down below. Came up to see if you were all right.” He frowned. “You need a drink. Any brandy in the flat?”
She shook her head.
“No? Well, I’ll bring a bottle up. Sorry I can’t invite you to my place, but Jean’s resting. You know how it is – she needs her rest.”
He went out, leaving the door open. Marion Lister crossed to the couch and lifted her cigarettes and lighter. She fumbled, the lighter dropped, and then slid down between the back of the couch and the loose seat-cushions. Shaking her head, she reached into the space, retrieved the lighter, then, puzzled, reached back in again and pulled out the other object her fingers had brushed against.
It was a button. A large, gaudy button with an ornamental metal centre. A button she’d never seen before.
“Miss Lister…”
She looked up. Mrs. Johns stood in the doorway, eyeing her awkwardly. “Eh…c’n I come in?”
She nodded.
“Maybe I was a wee bit hasty.” Mrs. Johns bit her lip. “About what I said, I mean—”
“Let’s forget it, Mrs. Johns.” Marion Lister was quietly earnest. “This button…ever seen it before?”
“Anna Lewis has a costume wi’ buttons like that.” Mrs. Johns’ interest flared. “Where’d you find it?”
“In the couch.” Marion Lister stopped, uncertain, as Rowan re-entered the flat, carrying the promised brandy bottle.
“Spot of this’ll buck you up,” he said. “Now, glasses.”
She watched as he crossed the room, opened the small cupboard beneath the upright desk in the far corner, and produced three of the wine glasses she kept there.
“Mr. Rowan – how did you know where the glasses were?”
“Glasses? Well…” Rowan flustered.
“You’ve never seen them produced before, Mr. Rowan. Not when I’ve been here.” In the doorway she saw Danny Johns. He stopped and waited, listening. “Is the reason this button? Anna Lewis’s button? That’s how you know, isn’t it? Because you’ve been here – with her?”
“Nonsense.” Rowan snapped the word. “I came here to help and…and…I’m going!” He turned.
Mrs. Johns gave an aggressive sniff. “Danny.”
Her son leaned across the doorway. “Stay a moment, mate,” he said. “Till we hear what Ma has to say, anyway.”
“It’s about the passkey.” Mrs. Johns stroked the tip of her nose. “I just remembered. Anna Lewis did borrow it once. Said she’d forgotten her own, and that her aunt was out.”
“She could have had it copied.” Marion Lister looked at the button in her hand. “I took the cushions off the couch three days ago, when I was cleaning. The button wasn’t there then.”
“I’m not staying.” Rowan shoved against the younger man in the doorway, was pushed back, swung angrily with the bottle, and next second was sent flying wildly back across the room, crashing to the floor and bringing down the telephone with him.
“Where’s Anna, Mr. Rowan?” insisted Marion Lister. “Nobody saw her go. Do you know where she is – or what happened to her?”
He picked himself up from the floor, blood flowing from a cut on his forehead. “All right—” he shook his head in a dazed fashion, took out his handkerchief and held it to the wound. “We were using your flat. It was – well, it made things easier.”
“And yesterday?”
“We were here. Then we had a quarrel, and she walked out.” He glanced from one face to another, in growing agitation. “I know where she is. If you want, I’ll arrange for her to…to telephone you this afternoon.”
They were still unconvinced.
“I mean it.” Rowan’s voice changed to a pleading note. “Look, my wife doesn’t know. I – the shock would be bad for her. You know she’s got a weak heart. Anyway, we’re leaving in a week or so. I’ve got a new job, another orchestra, out of town. That’s what caused the quarrel. I told Anna we were leaving, and that was the finish as far as we were concerned.”
Marion Lister lifted the telephone from the floor, replaced it on its stand, and shook her head. “I’ll believe you – if you call the girl right now and I speak to her.”
Rowan hesitated, lifted the receiver, then slowly lowered it.
“He’s right.” Danny Johns tried the instrument for himself.
“No dialling tone.”
“You’ve got a ’phone, Mr. Rowan.” Marion Lister inspected him with the cold anger engendered by weeks of fear and uncertainty. “Use it. We’ll come with you.”
“But my wife…” Rowan’s protests died as Danny Johns gripped him by the arm. They went downstairs together.
“I’ll use the passkey.” Mrs. Johns opened the Rowans’ door.
The telephone was on a small table just inside the little hallway.
But they stopped short as the inner door of the flat opened.
“Charlie…” Anna Lewis’s voice turned to a strangled gasp of fear. And she was wearing Mrs. Rowan’s yellow silk kimono.
“It’s another question now, Mr. Rowan,” said Danny Johns softly. “What happened to your wife?”
Rowan looked at Anna Lewis. Neither of them spoke.
Slowly, carefully, Marion Lister lifted the telephone.
Footprint in the Sky
John Dickson Carr
She awoke out of confused dreams; awoke with a start and lay staring at the white ceiling of her bedroom for a minute or two before she could convince herself it was anything but a dream.
But it was a dream.
The cold, brittle sunlight
poured in at the open window. The cold, brittle air, blowing the curtains, stirred a light coating of snow on the windowsill. It stirred briskly in that little, bare room; it should have set the blood racing, and Dorothy Brant breathed it deeply.
Everything was all right. She was at the country cottage, where she and Dad and Harry had come down for the skating on the frozen lake; possibly even a little mild skiing, if the snow came on according to the weather forecast. And the snow had fallen. She should have been glad of that, though for some reason the sight of it on the windowsill struck her with a kind of terror.
Shivering in the warm bed, the clothes pulled up about her chin, she looked at the little clock at her bedside. Twenty minutes past nine. She had overslept; Dad and Harry would be wanting their breakfast. Again she told herself that everything was all right: though now, fully awake, she knew it was not. The unpleasantness of yesterday returned. Mrs. Topham next door – that old shrew, and thief as well…
It was the only thing which could have marred this weekend. They had looked forward to the skating: the crisp blades thudding and ringing on the ice, the flight, the long scratching drag as you turned, the elm trees black against a clear cold sky. But there was Mrs. Topham with her stolen watch and her malicious good manners, huddled up in the cottage next door and spoiling everything.
Put it out of your mind! No good brooding over it: put it out of your mind!
Dorothy Brant braced herself and got out of bed, reaching for her dressing gown and slippers. But it was not her dressing gown she found draped across the chair; it was her heavy fur coat. And there were a pair of soft-leather slippers. They were a pair of soft-leather moccasins, ornamented with beadwork, which Harry had brought back from the States; but now the undersides were cold, damp and stiff, almost frozen. That was when a subconscious fear struck at her, took possession, and would not leave.
Closing the window, she padded out to the bathroom. The small cottage, with its crisp white curtains and smell of old wood, was so quiet that she could hear voices talking downstairs. It was a mumble in which no words were distinguishable: Harry’s quick tenor, her father’s slower and heavier voice, and another she could not identify, but which was slowest and heaviest of all.
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