19 Tales of Terror

by Whit Burnett

  been there? Suppose Bert Warder had heard him? Why, he was

  likely to betray himself wholly at any moment, even without

  the dreaded mention of Roger's name. How it would be mentioned tomorrow at the office, after everyone had seen the announcement in the morning paper! And he who could control his voice no more than his fingers-he found them again fumbling involuntarily at the crown of his head!

  He turned off the light, undressed and sat down on the edge

  of his bed to think, to plan, to prepare himself for tomorrow's

  ordeal. Everyone would speak of Roger to him, not Bert only,

  176 • Nineteen Tales of Terror

  everybody. And he had only this one night in which to find the

  right look, the right intonations, the right answers.

  Yet when it happened he was somehow equal to it. Tense

  and careful as a man handling a bomb, he thought he had come

  through safely. Everybody had said the proper thing about

  what good luck it was to have his brother one of the Company's

  Vice Presidents, and he had made the proper answers. At least

  they had sounded all right when he said them. Why did he still

  have this terrified uneasiness? Then he realized that his apprehension came from the fact that Bert Warder alone had not said a word to him. He, alone of all the men, had only nodded

  with a sardonic smile, and sat down silently to work. Francis'

  heart gave a frightened leap. Bert knew something. Somehow

  be had found out. Perhaps spying on him from a distance as he

  had doggedly answered the congratulations of the other men

  Bert had seen through the mask he had tried to keep closely

  clamped over his face.

  All that morning Bert stuck closely to his desk. But Francis

  knew that he was not thinking of his work. As the hot morning

  went on, and Bert said nothing, did not so much as look at him,

  Francis was surer and surer that somehow he knew. But how

  could he have found out?

  A few moments before lunch time Bert took his hat and

  without a word went out by himself. He was not at the cafe·

  teria at all. In the alarm over this inexplicable variation from

  routine Francis suddenly knew how Bert had found out. He

  had been standing outside the open windows last night listening

  in the dark, and had heard that cry of evil joy in Roger's childlessness. Yes, of course, that was what had happened.

  All that afternoon Francis covertly watched Bert. It was

  strange how easy it was to watch him without seeming to. Even

  when his back was squarely turned, he could see Bert continually leaving his desk to go from one man to another, whispering in their ears. And then not knowing that Francis could see

  them even though his back was turned, the listener would stare

  at him, nodding, nodding, his head with pursed-up lips, as Bert

  went on whispering, whispering, telling about the shameful

  secret he had heard as he stood listening in the dark.

  Through the breach in Mary's wall the demon had stepped

  softly in, bringing blackness with him.

  VI

  Bert said nothing about tennis that day and went home early.

  Francis got off the trolley at Jefferson Street alone. Forgetting

  to look in the mailbox he let himself in to the unaired empty

  house. He did not go about to open windows. He sat down

  The Murder on Jefferson Street • 1 11

  heavily, alarmed to feel his legs shaking under him. He could

  not afford to be agitated. He must collect himself. His only

  hope lay in not losing his head. The situation was grave. Bert

  might even now be corning up the walk to . . . He looked out to

  reassure himself, and saw not Bert, but a shining limousine

  drawing up in front of the house.

  Before he knew that he had recognized it was Roger's, his

  trembling legs had carried him in a wild rush of panic to the

  back of the house. The locked kitchen door halted him. If he

  went out there he would be seen. Where could he hide? Glaring

  around, he saw the closet where the mops and cleaning-cloths

  were kept. He flung himself into it. He was just in time. He had

  no more than drawn the door shut when the front doorbell

  rang, and it carne to him sickeningly that he could not remember whether he had locked the front door when he carne' in. He had not breathed till now, when, his lungs abnost collapsing,

  he gasped deeply and drew in to his last capillary the stench

  from the dirt of the damp mops, decomposing in the heat. The

  bell rang again. The noise found out his hiding place so accurately that for an instant he felt he was discovered, and gave up hope. He tightened his clutch on the doorknob. Even if they

  found him out he would hold the door shut, no matter how

  they pulled on it. He braced himself. A long silence. Had they

  stepped into the house? He tried to listen. The drumming of his

  pulse was the only sound. He stood rigid, clutching the doorknob to him, breathing the fetid air deeply in and out of his lungs. Presently from the street the sound of a starting motor

  carne dimly through the closed door.

  He waited a long time before he ventured to come out. This

  might be a trap to make him think they had gone. If he opened

  the door he might see some one's cold contemptuous eyes fixed

  on the door, waiting for him. But when he finally did cautiously

  tum the knob and look out, the kitchen was empty. He tiptoed

  to the front door, found he had locked it, that he had been safe

  all the time.

  And then, corning to himself for a moment's respite he turned

  so faint in a revulsion of feeling that he could not stand. What

  in God's name had he been doing? But was it possible! It was

  so remote from anything he wished that he thought for an instant he must have dreamed it. He, Francis, had had no intention of hiding from Roger! Why should he? There was no reason. Suppose Mary had been there? What possible reason

  could he have given her?

  The respite was over . . . suppose some one had seen him!

  A cold sweat drenched him. Some one had seen him, of course.

  Everyone! They all must have known what he had done. Everyone on the street must have seen him leave the trolley and go

  118 • Nineteen Tales ol Terror

  into the house. They all knew Roger by sight. They must all

  have been looking from their windows, saying to each other,

  "But he's there. I saw him go in just now." Perhaps they had

  gone out to the street to tell Roger that. Tomorrow they would

  say to him, suspicious eyes boring into his, "Why in the world

  didn't you let your brother in yesterday?" What could he say?

  He wrung his hands. "What can I say? What can I say?"

  Then he thought of a way out, It was simple. He could say he

  had gone at once to sleep, that he had not beard the bell. He

  would hurry up to the sleeping porch now and lie down so that

  if anyone came in he would be found there, his eyes closed. He

  raced up the stairs and flung himself down on the bed, clenching his eyelids shut. It was essential that he should seem to be asleep. Then he remembered that nobody could come in because the doors were locked. He opened his eyes. He tried to get up.

  But he was by now exhausted. He fell back, his wide open

  eyes facing a new danger. He imagined Bert Warder asking him

  the next morning, "What were you up to yeste
rday that you

  didn't want your brother to catch you at?" He must think of

  an answer to that question. Perhaps if he went over it all now in

  anticipation, question and answer,. he might be able to . . . Suppose Bert said suddenly, "What did you get into the mop-closet for yesterday, when your brother . . . "

  Oh horror! He had forgotten to keep his eyes shut to prove

  to people who came in to spy on him that he really had been

  asleep when Roger rang the bell. He shut them hard. Then

  slowly remembered, no,- no, that was not necessary. The front

  door was locked. No one could come in. He opened them again

  and stared out through the high railing of the sleeping porch.

  He had been trying to think what he could answer Bert Warder tomorrow. But how could he hope to control his face to hide his secret when he had no control over his fingers-he

  snatched his fumbling hand down from his head-over his

  body-he felt himself cowering again in front of the foulsmelling mop. His desperate thoughts of how to ward off tomorrow's danger were cut short by a sudden cold divination of the present peril. Danger was stealthily closing in on him now,

  this instant. He felt it creeping up on him from behind. He had

  known what that danger was. He tried wildly to remember. Oh,

  yes. He was to keep his eyes closed so that people would think

  him asleep. He had forgotten that. He shut them tightly, and

  weak with relief, felt that he had been just in time.

  He opened them in the morning, rose and under the cleaning-woman's eyes went through the motions of eating breakfast.

  He. and Bert happened to walk into the office together. He was

  incapable of speech, all his vitality concentrated on being on his

  The Murder on Jefferson Street • 119

  guard. Bert looked pale and out of sorts and said he hadn't been

  feeling very well yesterday. But he was all right today, he said,

  goggling his eyes, "And how about some tennis?" Francis

  saw through this trick instantly. He knew Bert was lying, and

  why he was lying . . . to throw Francis off his guard. His plan

  was to wait till Francis was exhausted at the end of the tennis

  that afternoon and then suddenly to shoot his question like one

  of his cannon-ball serves . . . "Why didn't you let your brother

  in yesterday?" Yes, it would come to him like one of those

  fiercely driven balls he could not return.

  All day he tried to invent a way out of the trap laid for him.

  But it was not till he was on the trolley with Bert that his inspiration came to him. The ride home was triumphal. He told Bert with a happy smile that he was going to change his clothes

  for tennis, and ran into the empty house. He stepped lightly,

  exultantly into the kitchen and putting all his weight against it,

  tipped the heavy refrigerator to one side. As it toppled he

  stooped, still smiling, and held his right hand under it.

  VII

  But of course the bandaged hand that could not hold a racket

  could not hold a pen or run a typewriter either. When he went

  to the office, he was sent home on sick leave. This pleased him.

  It meant he could lie on the bed all day, his eyes tightly shut to

  prevent the discovery that threatened him, that threatened

  Mary through him. The moment he opened them-as he must

  if he went down stairs to eat-Mary was in danger again, might

  at any moment be dragged in the filth of knowing what kind of

  man her husband was. But he had grown very clever in thinking

  of ways to protect Mary from that discovery. ''I seem to be

  very sleepy," he said cunningly to the cleaning-woman. "The

  doctor who took care of my hand told me the accident might

  have that effect and wanted me to sleep as much as I could.

  Just keep some food on a tray for me, will you, outside the

  door. When I wake up I will eat it."

  After this he need not open his eyes. He could lie, hour after

  hour, revelling in the pain of his mangled hand, glorious anguish with which he was buying security for M ary. He could, waiting till black night, grope his way into the bathroom, find

  scissors and razor blades by feel, and use them without looking.

  Without. opening those tightly shut eyelids he could find the

  food left for him on the tray, and empty it out in the corner of

  his closet so that the cleaning-woman would think he ate it.

  Mostly he lay rigidly still, as still as if he were in his coffin. Now

  that there was no reason to raise his hand to his head his arms

  lay quiet at his side. What a heavenly rest! He was resting a!-

  180 • Nineteen Tales of Terror

  most as well as if he were dead. And Mary was as safe as if he

  were dead. He was very tired, but infinitely proud of knowing

  how to protect Mary.

  Sometimes his tense eyelids relaxed and he really slept. That

  was the best. Oh, that was the best . . .

  VIII

  ..

  Since he no longer knew whether it were night or day he

  could not judge of time. How long had he lain there keeping

  Mary safe? A day . . . a week . . . a year? The silence of the

  empty house seemed to be broken by voices. The cleaningwoman's. And-could it be-it sounded like Mary's! It couldn't be Mary's, could it, come back into danger when he

  was so sure he had made her safe? Not Mary! This must be a

  ruse of his enemies to frighten him into opening his eyes.

  He sat up in bed, staring into the red blackness of his closed

  lids. Horrified, he strained his ears and recognized the children's

  voices. And that was Mary's step in the hall downstairs. His

  heart beat in time with it as with no other. Mary had come

  back, walking straight into mortal peril.

  Once more he had failed. He had not saved her after all. For

  a moment he was undone with defeat, and trembling from head

  to foot sat dumb with stupid panic.

  He heard the dear remembered step start up the stairs. With

  an effort greater than any in all his life, he summoned his soul

  to rise on the wings of love and be strong. And saw how even

  now it was not too late. Even now, though Mary's dear step

  was mounting the stairs, unsuspecting . . . Now, now was the

  time to play the man, once for all.

  He flung himself on his love for Mary, and with one beat of

  its mighty wings it bore him beyond Destiny that thought to

  have him vanquished. Weak he might be-his love, immortal

  and divine, made him, at the last, mightier than Fate.

  IX

  Only after the excitement of the clearing of Don's name was

  all over, when the Warders were on the train going home from

  their exhausting week in Huntsville did they begin to understand all that the proving of Don's innocence meant to them.

  Their days in Huntsville after the melodramatic discovery of

  the real thief, were so crammed with raw emotion they had

  been bewildered. They had passed without a pause from their

  first incredulous excitement to incredulous joy and then indignant sympathy for their brother with all those months of undeserved wretchedness back of him. What a nightmare they

  The Murder on Jefferson Street • 181

  had all lived through, they said over and over to each other.

  They had wept together, and the tears had washed the poison

  out of their wo
unds so that now, in the train on their way home,

  they were faint in the sweet weakness of convalescense. Bert's

  heart that had been crushed shut by shame and fear, softened,

  opened and let him out from the bitter desolation of self-pity.

  His imagination that had been smothered under the consciousness of disgrace drew breath again. He forgot what he had suffered; his thoughts were for his brother. "Poor Don!" he

  said over and over. "Poor Don!" After what he had lived

  through, it was like dying and going to heaven, to feel love and

  compassion. He was proud with a noble and new pride that the

  loss of all his savings weighed as nothing with him compared to

  his brother's vindication.

  The news had been in the newspapers. With headlines.

  Everybody must have read it. The Warders almost expected a

  congratulating delegation of neighbors to meet them at the station. But when they climbed heavily down from th.e dusty train and saw that the platform was empty, they thought at once that

  it was only uneducated working-class people who made a fuss

  in public, and laid the lesson humbly to heart.

  There was no one to be seen on Jefferson Street, when they

  stepped from the trolley at the home corner. They set their

  suitcases down with a long breath, to look. There was their

  street! It was theirs, with its genteel lawns, its ornamental useless flower-gardens, its dignified parklike shade trees. There it stood brooding dreamily in the blue swnmer twilight, and welcomed them back.

  "I'll carry the bags, both of them," said Bert to his wife,

  chivalrously. They trudged along towards their home, their own

  home, redeemed, shining, safe. They belonged here, they

  thought, with deep content. They were accepted by these refined people who took lawns and trees and flowers for granted.

  Their purged hearts swelled with thankfulness, with friendliness, with good resolutions. They must be worthy of their good fortune.

  As they approached the Benson house they saw that Helen

  was standing on the front porch, looking at the newspaper.

  What a nice girl Helen was, they thought fondly. Imogene

  called, "Ooh-hoo, Nellie !" and skipped up the front walk.

  Stricken by Helen's face she fell back, shocked. "Oh . . . why . • •

  what's the matter?"

  Two or three short sentences were all Helen had to say. Her