The Big Book of Christmas Mysteries Part 49

A knock brought Percy to the door, clothed in pyjamas, and at a glance I could see that the ghostly atmosphere of the place was already telling on his nerves. He looked pale and disturbed, but his mouth was firmly set with an obstinate expression likely to resist my proposals. However, out of diplomacy, I made none, but blandly stated my errand, with more roughness, indeed, than was necessary.

"Come to my room, Percy," I said, when he appeared, "and let me give you something to calm your nerves."

"I'm not afraid!" he said, defiantly.

"Who said you were?" I rejoined, tartly. "You believe in ghosts no more than I do, so why should you be afraid? But after the alarm of fire your nerves are upset, and I want to give you something to put them right. Otherwise, you'll get no sleep."

"I shouldn't mind a composing draught, certainly," said the little man. "Have you it here?"

"No, it's in my room, a few yards off. Come along."

Quite deluded by my speech and manner, Percy followed me into my bedroom, and obediently enough swallowed the medicine. Then I made him sit down in a comfortable armchair, on the plea that he must not walk immediately after the draught. The result of my experiment was justified, for in less than ten minutes the poor little man was fast asleep under the influence of the narcotic. When thus helpless, I placed him on my bed, quite satisfied that he would not awaken until late the next day. My task accomplished, I extinguished the light, and went off myself to the Blue Room, intending to remain there for the night.

It may be asked why I did so, as I could easily have taken my rest on the sofa in my own room; but the fact is, I was anxious to sleep in a haunted chamber. I did not believe in ghosts, as I had never seen one, but as there was a chance of meeting here with an authentic phantom I did not wish to lose the opportunity.

Therefore when I saw that Percy was safe for the night, I took up my quarters in the ghostly territory, with much curiosity, but-as I can safely aver-no fear. All the same, in case of practical jokes on the part of the feather-headed young men in the house, I took my revolver with me. Thus prepared, I locked the door of the Blue Room and slipped into bed, leaving the light burning. The revolver I kept under my pillow ready to my hand in case of necessity.

"Now," said I grimly, as I made myself comfortable, "I'm ready for ghosts, or goblins, or practical jokers."

I lay awake for a long time, staring at the queer figures on the blue draperies of the apartment. In the pale flame of the candle they looked ghostly enough to disturb the nerves of anyone: and when the draught fluttered the tapestries the figures seemed to move as though alive. For this sight alone I was glad that Percy had not slept in that room. I could fancy the poor man lying in that vast bed with blanched face and beating heart, listening to every creak, and watching the fantastic embroideries waving on the walls. Brave as he was, I am sure the sounds and sights of that room would have shaken his nerves. I did not feel very comfortable myself, sceptic as I was.

When the candle had burned down pretty low I fell asleep. How long I slumbered I know not: but I woke up with the impression that something or someone was in the room. The candle had wasted nearly to the socket and the flame was flickering and leaping fitfully, so as to display the room one moment and leave it almost in darkness the next. I heard a soft step crossing the room, and as it drew near a sudden spurt of flame from the candle showed me a little woman standing by the side of the bed. She was dressed in a gown of flowered brocade, and wore the towering head dress of the Queen Anne epoch. Her face I could scarcely see, as the flash of flame was only momentary: but I felt what the Scotch call a deadly grue as I realized that this was the veritable phantom of Lady Joan.

For the moment the natural dread of the supernatural quite overpowered me, and with my hands and arms lying outside the counterpane I rested inert and chilled with fear. This sensation of helplessness in the presence of evil was like what one experiences in a nightmare of the worst kind.

When again the flame of the expiring candle shot up, I beheld the ghost close at hand, and-as I felt rather than saw-knew that it was bending over me. A faint odour of musk was in the air, and I heard the soft rustle of the brocaded skirts echo through the semi-darkness. The next moment I felt my right wrist gripped in a burning grasp, and the sudden pain roused my nerves from their paralysis.

With a yell I rolled over, away from the ghost, wrenching my wrist from that horrible clasp, and, almost mad with pain I groped with my left hand for the revolver. As I seized it the candle flared up for the last time, and I saw the ghost gliding back towards the tapestries. In a second I raised the revolver and fired. The next moment there was a wild cry of terror and agony, the fall of a heavy body on the floor, and almost before I knew where I was I found myself outside the door of the haunted room. To attract attention I fired another shot from my revolver, while the Thing on the floor moaned in the darkness most horribly.

In a few moments guests and servants, all in various stages of undress, came rus.h.i.+ng along the pa.s.sage bearing lights. A babel of voices arose, and I managed to babble some incoherent explanation, and led the way into the room. There on the floor lay the ghost, and we lowered the candles to look at its face. I sprang up with a cry on recognizing who it was.

"Frank Ringan!"

It was indeed Frank Ringan disguised as a woman in wig and brocades. He looked at me with a ghostly face, his mouth working nervously. With an effort he raised himself on his hands and tried to speak-whether in confession or exculpation, I know not. But the attempt was too much for him, a choking cry escaped his lips, a jet of blood burst from his mouth, and he fell back dead.

Over the rest of the events of that terrible night I draw a veil. There are some things it is as well not to speak of. Only I may state that all through the horror and confusion Percy Ringan, thanks to my strong sleeping draught, slumbered as peacefully as a child, thereby saving his life.

With the morning's light came discoveries and explanations. We found one of the panels behind the tapestry of the Blue Room open, and it gave admittance into a pa.s.sage which on examination proved to lead into Frank Ringan's bedroom. On the floor we discovered a delicate hand formed of steel, and which bore marks of having been in the fire. On my right wrist were three distinct burns, which I have no hesitation in declaring were caused by the mechanical hand which we picked up near the dead man. And the explanation of these things came from Miss Laura, who was wild with terror at the death of her master, and said in her first outburst of grief and fear, what I am sure she regretted in her calmer moments.

"It's all Frank's fault," she wept. "He was poor and wished to be rich. He got Percy to make his will in his favour, and wanted to kill him by a shock. He knew that Percy had heart disease and that a shock might prove fatal; so he contrived that his cousin should sleep in the Blue Room on Christmas Eve; and he himself played the ghost of Lady Joan with the burning hand. It was a steel hand, which he heated in his own room so as to mark with a scar those it touched."

"Whose idea was this?" I asked, horrified by the devilish ingenuity of the scheme.

"Frank's!" said Miss Laura, candidly. "He promised to marry me if I helped him to get the money by Percy's death. We found that there was a secret pa.s.sage leading to the Blue Room; so some years ago we invented the story that it was haunted."

"Why, in G.o.d's name?"

"Because Frank was always poor. He knew that his cousin in Australia had heart disease, and invited him home to kill him with fright. To make things safe he was always talking about the haunted room and telling the story so that everything should be ready for Percy on his arrival. Our plans were all carried out. Percy arrived and Frank got him to make the will in his favour. Then he was told the story of Lady Joan and her hand, and by setting fire to Percy's room last night I got him to sleep in the Blue Chamber without any suspicion being aroused."

"You wicked woman!" I cried. "Did you fire Percy's room on purpose?"

"Yes. Frank promised to marry me if I helped him. We had to get Percy to sleep in the Blue Chamber, and I managed it by setting fire to his bedroom. He would have died with fright when Frank, as Lady Joan, touched him with the steel hand, and no one would have been the wiser. Your sleeping in that haunted room saved Percy's life, Dr. Lascelles, yet Frank invited you down as part of his scheme, that you might examine the body and declare the death to be a natural one."

"Was it Frank who burnt the wrist of Herbert Spencer some years ago?" I asked.

"Yes!" replied Miss Laura, wiping her red eyes. "We thought if the ghost appeared to a few other people, that Percy's death might seem more natural. It was a mere coincidence that Mr. Spencer died three months after the ghost touched him."

"Do you know you are a very wicked woman, Miss Laura?"

"I am a very unhappy one," she retorted. "I have lost the only man I ever loved; and his miserable cousin survives to step into his shoes as the master of Ringshaw Grange."

That was the sole conversation I had with the wretched woman, for shortly afterwards she disappeared, and I fancy must have gone abroad, as she was never more heard of. At the inquest held on the body of Frank the whole strange story came out, and was reported at full length by the London press to the dismay of ghost-seers: for the fame of Ringshaw Grange as a haunted mansion had been great in the land.

I was afraid lest the jury should bring in a verdict of manslaughter against me, but the peculiar features of the case being taken into consideration I was acquitted of blame, and shortly afterwards returned to India with an unblemished character. Percy Ringan was terribly distressed on hearing of his cousin's death, and shocked by the discovery of his treachery. However, he was consoled by becoming the head of the family, and as he lives a quiet life at Ringshaw Grange there is not much chance of his early death from heart disease-at all events from a ghostly point of view.

The Blue Chamber is shut up, for it is haunted now by a worse spectre than that of Lady Joan, whose legend (purely fict.i.tious) was so ingeniously set forth by Frank. It is haunted by the ghost of the cold-blooded scoundrel who fell into his own trap; and who met with his death in the very moment he was contriving that of another man. As to myself, I have given up ghost-hunting and sleeping in haunted rooms. Nothing will ever tempt me to experiment in that way again. One adventure of that sort is enough to last me a lifetime.

A WREATH FOR MARLEY.

Max Allan Collins.

THE VERSATILE AND PROLIFIC MAX ALLAN COLLINS has written dozens of novels, including some about Nolan, a hit man; Mallory, a mystery writer who solves real-life crimes; Eliot Ness, who gained fame as the leader of the Untouchables; and Nathan h.e.l.ler, a Chicago P. I. who becomes involved in well-known crimes of the era, meeting up with such famous characters as Orson Welles and Sally Rand, the fan-dancer. He also wrote the d.i.c.k Tracy comic strip, some Batman comic books, and created the comic book private eye Ms. Tree. His graphic novel, Road to Perdition, became the basis of the Academy Awardwinning Tom Hanks film. "A Wreath for Marley" was first published in Dante's Disciples, edited by Peter Crowther and Edward E. Kramer (Clarkston, GA, White Wolf, 1995).

A Wreath for Marley.

MAX ALLAN COLLINS.

PRIVATE DETECTIVE RICHARD STONE wasn't much for celebrations, or holidays-or holiday celebrations, for that matter.

Nonetheless, this Christmas Eve, in the year of our Lord 1942, he decided to throw a little holiday party in the modest two-room suite of offices on Wabash that he had once shared with his late partner, Jake Marley.

Present for the festivities were his sandy-tressed cutie-pie secretary, Katie Crockett, and his fresh-faced young partner, Joey Ernest. Last to arrive was his best pal (at least since Jake died), burly homicide d.i.c.k Sgt. Hank Ross.

Katie had strung up some tinsel and decorated a little tree by her reception desk. Right now the little group was having a Yuletide toast with heavily rum-spiked egg nog. The darkly handsome Stone's spirits were good-just this morning, he'd been declared 4-F, thanks to his flat feet.

"Every flatfoot should have 'em!" he laughed.

"What'd you do?" Ross asked. "Bribe the draft-board doc?"

"What's it to you?" Stone grinned. "You cops get automatic deferments!"

And the two men clinked cups.

Actually, bribing the draft-board doctor was exactly what Stone had done; but he saw no need to mention it.

"h.e.l.l," Joey said-and the word was quite a curse coming from this kid-"I wish I could go. If it wasn't for this d.a.m.n perforated eardrum ..."

"You and Sinatra," Stone laughed.

Katie said nothing; her eyes were on the framed picture on her desk-her young brother Ben, who was spending Christmas in the Pacific somewhere.

"I got presents for all of you," Stone said, handing envelopes around.

"What's this?" Joey asked, confused, opening his envelope to see a slip of paper with a name and address on the South Side.

"Best black market butcher in the city," Stone said. "You and the missus and the brood can start the next year out with a coupla sirloins, on me."

"I'd feel funny about that ... it's not legal...."

"Jesus! How can you be such a square and still work for me? You're lucky there's a manpower shortage, kid."

Ross, envelope open, was thumbing through five twenty-dollar bills. "You always know just what to get me, Stoney."

"Cops are so easy to shop for," Stone said.

Katie, seeming embarra.s.sed, whispered her thanks into Stone's ear.

"Think nothin' of it, baby," he said. "It's as much for me as for you."

He'd given her a fifty-dollar gift certificate at the lingerie counter at Marshall Field's. Not every boss would be so generous.

They all had gifts for him, too: Joey gave him a ten-dollar war bond, Katie a hand-tooled leather shoulder holster, and Hank the latest Esquire "Varga" calendar.

"To give this rat-trap some cla.s.s," the cop said.

Joey raised his cup. "Here's to Mr. Marley," he said.

"To Mr. Marley," Katie said, her eyes suddenly moist. "Rest his soul."

"Yeah," Ross said, lifting his cup, "here's to Jake-dead a year to the day."

"To the night, actually," Stone said, and hoisted his cup. "What the h.e.l.l-to my partner Jake. You were a miserable b.a.s.t.a.r.d, but Merry Christmas, anyway."

"You shouldn't talk that way!" Katie said.

"Even if it's the truth?" Stone asked with a smirk.

Suddenly it got quiet.

Then Ross asked, "Doesn't it bother you, Stoney? You're a detective and your partner's murder goes unsolved? Ain't it bad for business?"

"Naw. Not when you do mostly divorce work."

Ross grinned, shook his head. "Stoney, you're an example to us all," he said, waved, and ambled out.

Katie had a heartsick expression. "Doesn't Mr. Marley's death mean anything to you? He was your best friend!"

Stone patted his .38 under his shoulder. "Sadie here's my best friend. And, sure, Marley's death means something to me: full owners.h.i.+p of the business, and the only name on the door is mine."

She shook her head, slowly, sadly. "I'm so disappointed in you, Richard...."

He took her gently aside. "Then I'm not welcome at your apartment anymore?" he whispered.

"Of course you're welcome. I'm still hoping you'll come have Christmas dinner with my family and me, tomorrow."

"I'm not much for family gatherings. Ain't it enough I got you the black-market turkey?"

"Richard!" She shushed him. "Joey will hear...."

"What, and find out you're no Saint Kate?" He gave her a smack of a kiss on the forehead, then patted her f.a.n.n.y. "See you the day after ... we'll give that new casino on Rush Street a try."

She sighed, said, "Merry Christmas, Richard," gathered her coat and purse, and went out.

Now it was just Joey and Stone. The younger man said, "You know, Katie's starting to get suspicious."

"About what?"

"About what. About you and Mrs. Marley!"

Stone snorted. "Katie just thinks I'm bein' nice to my late partner's widow."

"You being 'nice' is part of why it seems so suspicious. While you were out today, Mrs. Marley called about five times."

"The h.e.l.l! Katie didn't say so."

"See what I mean?" Joey plucked his topcoat off the coat tree. "Mr. Stone-please don't expect me to keep covering for you. It makes me feel ... dirty."

"Are you sure you were born in Chicago, kid?" Stone opened the door for him. "Go home! Have yourself a merry the h.e.l.l little Christmas! Tell your kids Santa's comin', send 'em up to bed, and make the missus under the mistletoe one time for me."

"Thanks for the sentiment, Mr. Stone," he said, and was gone.

Stone-alone, now-decided to skip the egg nog and head straight for the rum. He was downing a cup when a knock called him to the door.

Two representatives of the Salvation Army stepped into his outer office, in uniform-a white-haired old gent, with a charity bucket, and a pretty shapely thing, her innocent face devoid of make-up under the Salvation Army bonnet.

"We're stopping by some of the offices to-" the old man began.

"Make a touch," Stone finished. "Sure thing. Help yourself to the egg nog, pops." Then he cast a warm smile on the young woman. "Honey, step inside my private office ... that's where I keep the cash."

He shut himself and the little dame inside his office and got a twenty-dollar bill out of his cashbox from a desk drawer, then tucked the bill inside the swell of the girl's blouse.

Her eyes widened. "Please!"