“They lie!” I screamed, but the detective raised his hand imperatively and I held my breath.
“They found the conservatory much disturbed. Plants had been knocked down and trampled upon; jardinieres and flower-pots lay crushed among heaps of black earth. There had been a struggle, a fight to a finish, but the principals were missing. ‘Diana’ was gone from her pedestal; even the velvet draperies of her niche were gone. They searched every room and as they went along closed every door and window.
“Lunston hastened to the telephone and Dombey to the garage that he might run out the car and pick up the first policeman he met. The car, however, had gone wrong. It could not be started till a quarter-hour later when, with the greatest possible despatch, they brought me here. And,” he added, rising, “here I stay till I find my man.”
“He was in the house!” I exclaimed in shrill treble. “I saw him, studio-togs and all!” Robesart stared at my blanched face. “You’re not well, Mr. Vaughan!” he said with sudden concern.
Immediately the terrific pains in my forehead returned. They were carrying her in from the terrace—reverently as though she were human dead, and I shrieked like a maniac and tore the air with clawlike fingers.
However, they grappled with me and poured a stimulant down my throat, and in time the agony passed. I recognized Robesart beside me.
“The man in the mirror!” I cried.
“Have you found him?”
He shook his head thoughtfully.
“No person, strange or otherwise, has been in the house, save ourselves,” he replied. “The place has been thoroughly searched. However, I wish you to describe the fellow7 in detail. You say he wore studio-clothes?”
“Yes, yes.” I replied in eager haste, and then I frankly met his gaze and told him all I remembered. During the recital Robesart stood motionless, staring at me till I was fully conscious of the great, silent question in his piercing gaze.
“But there was no mysterious vandal!” he blurted out. “There was no strange man in the whole affair from start to finish! He is merely a creature of your imagination.”
“What?” I roared, leaping to my feet, snarling with anger. “Do you mean—”
“Candidly now, Mr. Vaughan, why did you steal and destroy the famous ‘Diana’?” Robesart asked forcefully.
“Destroy the ‘Diana’!” I howled. “How dare you—”
“Your forehead—the brand on your forehead!” he cried dramatically, “Your victim was marble, but she put the murderer’s mark upon you that all men may see and beware!”
I clapped my hand to my head, bewildered, fearful. A wound! A great wound where the flesh had been broken! I could actually feel it. The pain of it was almost intolerable—how odd that I had not noticed it before. Small wonder that Robesart suspected me—
Again I lost consciousness and for a long time lay like one dead. At last Robesart roused me.
“Mr. Vaughan,” he said with great solemnity, “while you were sleeping I phoned your brother and physician in New York. Dr. Rossmore has known your family for generations and your own personal history from the day of your birth, and I may add that neither are surprised at to-night’s affair!”
“You mean,” I raved, “that hey have been expecting this thing of me?”
“They have imagined such an outcome!”
“What would be my motive?”
“Jealousy.” His lips were rigid. “You have failed in your chosen art—failed miserably. What more natural than you should be jealous of your brother Harmon’s success, and resenting his most valuable work—”
“Just so!” I exclaimed, shifting easily into the thread of the argument. “Why shouldn’t Harmon divide with me? He has fame and money and I’m a—a nobody!”
“That’s exactly the motive!” was the quiet answer. “Are you ready to make your confession?”
“I have no confession!” I told him fiercely. “I deny the charge. I know you believe me insane—you believe my story of the real criminal in the mirror a fabrication. Of course the strange mark on my head is damning evidence, but—”
Robesart smiled whimsically. My teeth began chattering and my shoulders shook.
“Lunston,” he called to one of the men, “Go to the coat-closet and bring Mr. Vaughan’s wraps!”
I grasped his sleeve and he turned toward me expectantly.
“You must find that man in the mirror!” I chattered. “There is a man and you must be convinced of it! You must insist upon his being found!”
The detective nodded earnestly. As the servant stepped forward with my belongings, Robesart took the long, full, sculptor’s apron in his hand. “This is yours, Mr. Vaughan?”
“It is mine!” I answered, ramming my arms in the sleeves.
“And this?” He held a brown rembrandt in his hand which I recognized at once by the shabby black velvet stretched around its band.
“Yes, mine!” I exclaimed.
I put on the cap and apron, not that I felt the need of them, but because I firmly believed I could convince him of my innocence and make him my friend for life—if only we might find the man—
Suddenly a subtle change swept over his stern face and manner.
“I have news for you, Vaughan,” his great voice boomed. “Our investigation is now ended! We have found the criminal—the man of the mirror! Come inside! We need you for identification!” I tried to cry out my relief, my joy. But I couldn’t.
“Come inside with us,” Robesart whispered. “Show us the man in the mirror!”
I could only babble incoherent words of delight. But even before I reached the threshold the wound on my forehead seethed and agonies unspeakable crashed through my brain.
The columns of the veranda spun about me and I clung to both men for support. But through it all I was conscious only that my innocence and veracity were proved at last beyond all question, and that I was about to see my brother’s enemy again face to face.
“Your story is a plausible one, after all!” Robesart was saying in a cool, monotonous tone as we stumbled into the vestibule.
The electrolier had been turned out, the reception-hall was shaded save for the twin clusters of light twinkling over the great gilt mirror at the far end. As Robesart walked beside me, his face showed a perceptible triumph, his eyes glittered suspiciously.
We traversed the hallway in silence, and then I paused directly in front of the mirror, and my heart ceased its beat.
I simply stared straight ahead, and there he stood—the vandal—the same haunted face, the same bulging eyes, heavy cap, black band, tawny hair, and apron with its stains of modeling clay, the brand in the center of the forehead.
“Yes, yes, it’s he!” I screamed. “It’s he! It’s he!”
The torments of the inferno fairly riddled me. I threw out my arms and sprang forward to throttle him. Before the men could interfere, I had crashed into the mirror, reeled, and fallen with the unwieldy mass of it upon me.
And then—at last—I knew—it was I—I—
But I can say no more.
HIS DAY BACK, by Jack Brant
There was a knock at the door. At my request, it opened and in walked, or rather glided, my man, Mullbury. A strange thing about Mullbury is that he whenever he knocks, I realize instantly that I have something to say to him.
“Mullbury, pack my suitcase for a week of travel. I’m going West.”
Mullbury immediately withdrew. He is a most remarkable man, and save for the one time when he asked for an increase in wages because of the court’s decision that he should pay alimony, his sole object in knocking has been to take my expected command.
Why I should start for the West I could not understand. I knew no one in New Mexico. I had seen it on the map when a small boy—a square of pink, I think,
though I am not sure now of the color—and learned that it was one of those lawless places called territories.
Beyond that, being what is known as a narrow man, which means that more vital interests absorb my attentions, I have never taken the slightest interest in New Mexico until startled by Mullbury’s knock. Then, moved by some unexplainable impulse, I threw away my cigar, telephoned for accommodations to Las Cruces, and started on the midnight express.
During the three days’ journey, I had ample time to reflect on the folly of this move. I realized perfectly that I should not have left my business at this time. That I had always intended, when able to take a vacation, to visit my brother in Cuba.
Cuba would do me good, and I would have the opportunity to gratify an abnormal craving to see a cockfight. Yet I found it absolutely impossible to turn back.
On the afternoon of the third day, I arrived in Las Cruces on a train I would not have caught but for the fortunate fact that it was twelve hours late. I took passage in what might have been the original overland stage, slightly modified, and was conveyed safely through the dust, to the taste of which I had become accustomed on the sleeper, to a one-story mud fort bearing the name “hotel” in red and black over its door.
I engaged a narrow but surprisingly cool room. Then I ventured forth on the one long business street, still compelled by the unaccountable impulse, and purchased a complete costume more in accord with my surroundings than the one suit which I had brought with me, and which was already attracting more attention than was pleasing to a man of my retiring nature.
I also purchased an elaborate prospecting outfit, provisions to last several days, and a sleeping-bag. This last was forced upon me by an attractive Mexican maiden with perfect teeth who thrust it laughingly into my arms, repeating what appeared to be the only English she knew, “You buy! You buy!” as if it all was a huge joke.
And it was a joke. That bag would have been all right for a trip to the north pole, but was slightly unnecessary for the burning sands of New Mexico.
As a final act of folly I engaged transportation with a mule-team which would start in the morning for Organ. Organ is a small mining settlement at the base of the Organ Mountains, which rise very much like the pipe-stems of an organ above the level desert in the east.
Rugged and steep the mountains look, like the edge of the world. I felt somewhere that they were my destination, and watched them—gorgeously lighted with purple and gold by the brilliant sunset— with interest.
There was a great deal of mystery and awe about them. They seemed a fitting haunt for wild, inhuman spirits, whose unholy groans could echo through the deep canyons; for lone, ghostly shapes, floating sadly from their heights at dusk to bring terror and disaster to the surrounding world. Standing there so tall, and plainly outlined in the clear, dry air. I could scarcely believe when told that they were ten miles away, so near they seemed.
I never believed in fairies. At least, not very much. You can’t if you happen to live in a city with proof on all sides that no such things exist. But I couldn’t help thinking, as I looked at those mountains, that if there were any anywhere you would find them among those red and pink and purple rocks.
* * * *
At daybreak the next morning, the hotel furnished me with a fine breakfast, and I was relieved to find that my madness had not affected my appetite. I had not slept very well—a reddish stain on the wall over my head, framed by about a hundred and fifty disconnected red legs, had reminded me of what a man on the train had told me regarding tarantulas and centipedes. But I don’t think I saw any real ones.
I found my mule team and put my pack in and climbed up on the front seat with the driver. The first part of the drive was very pleasant until the sun discovered us and came a little nearer to see what a man of my make was doing with a prospector’s outfit.
The desert, which had looked so flat in the distance, was a series of sandy hills partly covered with cactus and what I think was sage (I am not sure that I know what sage is, so it might have been sage), populated by lizards and horned toads and fat little prairie dogs and thousands upon thousands of long-eared rabbits. I understood what the man meant who said that when he got out on the desert, the ground got up and started to run away from him.
Every now and then we would come upon a bird about as big as a spring chicken, which looked like an over-grown and very unkempt sandpeep, employed in killing a snake or making a tasty breakfast off of centipedes and tarantulas. If I had to live in that country, I would tame one of those birds and keep it with me constantly.
I tried to learn something of the country from the driver, but without success. He was cheerful enough, but his vocabulary was not much more extensive than that of the girl who had sold me the sleeping-bag. He was evidently used to prospectors of my type, for he made no comment when I asked to be put off just before reaching Organ.
He waved to me as I entered a deep ravine, and I waved back. Then I passed out of sight among the rocks, and found myself absolutely alone in the wildest country I had ever seen.
Up and up I climbed, winding in and out through massive boulders and tangles of knotted and twisted trees. I had no idea where I was going, but the something that had brought me this far kept leading me on, and I followed passively.
Once in a patch of sand I saw tracks as big as my head, with claws; but I was not afraid. The reason that I did not feel worried I attribute to my belief in fate—since my marriage I have been content to take calmly whatever may be in store for me.
After scrambling over an impossible trail that branched from the main gorge—a thing no man would have done of his own free will—I found myself in a narrow defile between towering cliffs. I followed this until it ended in a circular platform shut in on all sides except the front by steep, unscalable walls of rocks.
I walked to the edge and peered over—and drew back hastily. There was a sheer drop of about five hundred feet, with ugly looking rocks at the bottom. The only means of access was the narrow defile through which I had entered. I could go no farther.
“Well, here I am!” I said aloud, perfectly unconsciously.
“It’s about time,” answered a gruff voice above me.
I sat down and mopped my brow. To be expected at this place and at this time was a good deal of a shock, even to such a believer in fate as myself.
“Don’t be alarmed,” said the voice, less gruff this time and with a tone of amusement in it. “It’s a little uncanny at first, but you will get used to it. I did.”
This gave me courage to look up in the direction from which the voice came. There, some fifty feet directly over my head, sitting calmly on the only projecting piece of rock on that whole smooth surface, his legs swinging idly over the edge, was a man!
For a few minutes we looked at each other in silence. He was about my size, dressed in a prospector’s outfit similar to my own, and as new. His face was kindly, showing nothing but amused curiosity, and I began to feel more at ease. There was something even familiar about him, and I wondered where I had seen him before.
“How did you get up there?” I asked, my wonder prompting the question.
“It’s easy when you are in my condition,” he replied casually. “Are you Mr. Bent?”
“Benjamin Bent is my name,” I answered “Who are you?”
“My name is Adams—Jonathan Adams. You have probably heard a great deal about me.”
I gasped. Jonathan Adams was the name of my wife’s second husband, the one before she married me.
“Not the Jonathan Adams who married Mrs. Hayes?” I stammered.
“The same,” he answered. “You, I believe, had the pleasure of marrying her next.”
“But,” I remonstrated, beginning to feel dizzy, “you were supposed to have died five years ago!”
“That’s right,” said Mr.
Adams. “I did die. I committed suicide by jumping off this very cliff, as Mr. Hayes did before me.”
“See here,” I said, trying to appear calm. “This is no time to joke. You don’t expect me to believe that you are my wife’s second husband’s ghost!”
“That’s just what I am,” he answered with a grin. “Aren’t you beginning to see through me.”
I looked at him closely. To my astonishment, I could follow a crack in the rock behind him through his shoulders. I sat down and pressed my head between my hands, trying to think.
“There, there!” said the ghost. “Don’t take it so hard. I know just how you feel. I felt the same way when I first saw Mr. Hayes. But, good Heavens, there is nothing to be afraid of. I wouldn’t hurt you if I could. I know what you have been through already. I came down here to help you, the same as Mr. Hayes did for me.”
He was so reassuring and polite and apologetic that most of my fear left me, and my curiosity got the better of what remained. I looked up again with interest.
“I never saw a ghost before,” I said, trying to explain my fright. “I suppose you just floated up to that rock?”
“Sure,” answered Mr. Adams. “I’ll come down to show you.”
With that he slipped off the ledge and slowly floated to my side. He put out his hand, but drew it away hastily when I reached out to shake it. I recognized him now from his likeness to the big picture in the gilt frame which my wife kept hung in the sitting-room beside the one of Mr. Hayes.
“I’m sorry,” he said, referring with evident confusion to his action in withdrawing his hand. “but I can’t get over some of those habits. Of course, you couldn’t shake hands with me, for there is nothing there to shake.”
I saw he was sensitive about it, so I merely laughed, though I was curious to try the effect.
“It’s mighty good of you to take it so well,” he continued. “I was in a blue funk for quite a time before Mr. Hayes could comfort me. A very nice man, that Mr. Hayes. Have you ever met him?”
The Fourth Ghost Story MEGAPACK: 25 Classic Haunts! Page 14
