The Weird Crime MEGAPACK® E-Book

Talmage Powell

• Herausgeber: Wildside Press
• Kategorie: Gesellschafts- und Liebesromane
• Sprache: Englisch

Seitenzahl: 643

Veröffentlichungsjahr: 2024

Beschreibung

Here for your reading delectation, are 25 outre tales of crime. Since history has proven that there is nothing unusual or unexpected about the human (or inhuman) drive to break the law, it should come as no surprise that the weird, the strange, the supernatural, and the just plain odd often, in fictional form, manifest themselves allayed to the criminal element. Included are:

INTRODUCTION, by Shawn Garrett
THE WINDOW OF HORRORS, by H.L. Mencken
THE FOOTSTEPS ON THE STAIRS, by William J. Wintle
THE RÔLE OF THE WEIRD, by Tom Worth
THE HAUNTED BURGLAR, by W.C. Morrow
VALLEY OF THE STORM KING, by Joseph J. Millard
THE MAN IN THE MIRROR, by Lillian B. Hunt
SATAN’S FACELESS HENCHMEN, by Steve Fisher
BAT MAN, by Victor Rousseau
DOUBLE IN DEATH, by Gerald Vance
CYANIDE AND OLD LACE, by Emil Petaja
THE HOUSE OF FIRE, by Robert Moore Williams
THE MAN WHO LOST HIS HEAD, by Thomas Burke
DEATH’S BRIGHT HALO, by Robert Leslie Bellem
FINISHED BY HAND, by H.B. Hickey
THE COUNTERFEITER, by Robert Moore Williams
THE ADVENTURE OF GOSNELL, by George T. Wetzell
MONKEY ON HIS BACK, by Charles V. De Vet
AGREE—OR DIE, by Rufus King
DEATH OVER CHICAGO, by Robert Moore Williams
HOPE CHEST, by Talmage Powell
TUNE ME IN, by Fletcher Flora
GRAMP, by Charles V. De Vet
POISON PEN, by George T. Wetzel
YOU KNOW WILLIE, by Theodore R. Cogswell
THE ULTIMATE PREY, by Talmage Powell

Leseprobe

Table of Contents

COPYRIGHT INFO

INTRODUCTION

THE WINDOW OF HORRORS, by H.L. Mencken

THE FOOTSTEPS ON THE STAIRS, by William J. Wintle

THE RÔLE OF THE WEIRD, by Tom Worth

THE HAUNTED BURGLAR, by W.C. Morrow

VALLEY OF THE STORM KING, by Joseph J. Millard

THE MAN IN THE MIRROR, by Lillian B. Hunt

SATAN’S FACELESS HENCHMEN, by Steve Fisher

BAT MAN, by Victor Rousseau

DOUBLE IN DEATH, by Gerald Vance

CYANIDE AND OLD LACE, by Emil Petaja

THE HOUSE OF FIRE, by Robert Moore Williams

THE MAN WHO LOST HIS HEAD, by Thomas Burke

DEATH’S BRIGHT HALO, by Robert Leslie Bellem

FINISHED BY HAND, by H.B. Hickey

THE COUNTERFEITER, by Robert Moore Williams

THE ADVENTURE OF GOSNELL, by George T. Wetzell

MONKEY ON HIS BACK, by Charles V. De Vet

AGREE—OR DIE, by Rufus King

DEATH OVER CHICAGO, by Robert Moore Williams

HOPE CHEST, by Talmage Powell

TUNE ME IN, by Fletcher Flora

GRAMP, by Charles V. De Vet

POISON PEN, by George T. Wetzel

YOU KNOW WILLIE, by Theodore R. Cogswell

THE ULTIMATE PREY, by Talmage Powell

ABOUT THE MEGAPACK® SERIES

Wildside Press’s MEGAPACK® Ebook Series

COPYRIGHT INFO

The Weird Crime MEGAPACK® is copyright © 2015 by Wildside Press, LLC.

All rights reserved.

Cover art © carla720 / Fotolia.

* * * *

MEGAPACK® is a registered trademark of Wildside Press, LLC.

All rights reserved.

*

This is version 1.2 of the book, correcting typos and formatting.

*

“The Window of Horrors,” by H.L. Mencken, was originally published in The Smart Set, September 1917, under the pseudonym “William Drayham.”

“The Footsteps on the Stairs,” by William J. Wintle, was originally published in Ghost Gleams, 1921.

“The Rôle of the Weird,” by Tom Worth, was originally published in The Argosy, October 1907.

“The Haunted Burglar,” by W.C. Morrow, was originally published in Lippincott’s Magazine, July 1897.

“Valley of the Storm King,” by Joseph J. Millard, was originally published in Thrilling Mystery, March 1941. Copyright © 1941 by Popular Library, Inc., renewed 1968 (renewal #R447314). Reprinted by permission of the estate of Joseph J. Millard.

“The Man in the Mirror,” by Lillian B. Hunt, was originally published in All-Story Weekly, September 2, 1916.

“Satan’s Faceless Henchmen,” by Steve Fisher, was originally published in Ace Mystery, May 1936.

“Bat Man,” by Victor Rousseau, was originally published in Spicy Mystery Stories, February 1936, under the pseudonym “Lew Merrill.”

“Double in Death,” by Gerald Vance was originally published in Fantastic Adventures, April 1942.

“Cyanide and Old Lace,” by Emil Petaja was originally published in 10-Story Detective, April 1945.

“The House of Fire,” by Robert Moore Williams was originally published in Fantastic Adventures, January 1942.

“The Man Who Lost His Head,” by Thomas Burke was originally published in Night-Pieces: Eighteen Tales, 1935.

“Death’s Bright Halo,” by Robert Leslie Bellem was originally published in Spicy Detective Stories, October 1935.

“Finished by Hand,” by H.B. Hickey was originally published in Fantastic Adventures, May 1946.

“The Counterfeiter,” by Robert Moore Williams was originally published in Fantastic Adventures, November 1946.

“The Adventure of Gosnell,” by George T. Wetzell was originally published in The Gothic Horror and Other Weird Tales (1978).

“Monkey on His Back,” by Charles V. De Vet was originally published in Galaxy, June 1960.

“Agree—Or Die,” by Rufus King was originally published in Ellery Queen’s Mystery Magazine, December 1957.

“Death Over Chicago,” by Robert Moore Williams was originally published in Fantastic Adventures, January 1940.

“Hope Chest,” by Talmage Powell was originally published in Mike Shayne Mystery Magazine, August 1976.

“Tune Me In,” by Fletcher Flora was originally published in Alfred Hitchcock’s Mystery Magazine, September 1960.

“Gramp,” by Charles V. De Vet was originally published in If, May 1962.

“Poison Pen,” by George T. Wetzel was originally published in From Beyond The Dark Gateway, April 1974.

“You Know Willie,” by Theodore R. Cogswell was originally published in The Magazine of Fantasy & Science Fiction, May, 1957.

“The Ultimate Prey,” by Talmage Powell was originally published in Alfred Hitchcock’s Mystery Magazine, December 1974.

INTRODUCTION

Here for your reading delectation, are 25 outré tales of crime. Since history has proven that there is nothing unusual or unexpected about the human (or inhuman) drive to break the law, it should come as no surprise that the weird, the strange, the supernatural, and the just plain odd often, in fictional form, manifest themselves allayed to the criminal element.

In choosing the contents of this MEGAPACK®, the editor has tried to provide a wide variety of genre stories. Some are macabre or feature ghosts, some have mad science, a few focus on the crazed intricacies of the human mind, a few are even science fiction (keep an eye out for the upcoming Science Fiction Crime & Detection MEGAPACK®) and in some the scenario itself is just so weird that we felt they deserved inclusion. So hopefully readers will find something here for all tastes! And please let us know if you would be interested in seeing another Megapack like this one!

—Shawn Garrett

Editor, Wildside Press LLC

www.wildsidepress.com

ABOUT THE SERIES

Over the last few years, our MEGAPACK® ebook series has grown to be our most popular endeavor. (Maybe it helps that we sometimes offer them as premiums to our mailing list!) One question we keep getting asked is, “Who’s the editor?”

The MEGAPACK® ebook series (except where specifically credited) are a group effort. Everyone at Wildside works on them. This includes John Betancourt (me), Carla Coupe, Steve Coupe, Shawn Garrett, Helen McGee, Bonner Menking, Sam Cooper, Helen McGee and many of Wildside’s authors…who often suggest stories to include (and not just their own!)

RECOMMEND A FAVORITE STORY?

Do you know a great classic science fiction story, or have a favorite author whom you believe is perfect for the MEGAPACK® ebook series? We’d love your suggestions! You can post them on our message board at http://movies.ning.com/forum (there is an area for Wildside Press comments).

Note: we only consider stories that have already been professionally published. This is not a market for new works.

TYPOS

Unfortunately, as hard as we try, a few typos do slip through. We update our ebooks periodically, so make sure you have the current version (or download a fresh copy if it’s been sitting in your ebook reader for months.) It may have already been updated.

If you spot a new typo, please let us know. We’ll fix it for everyone. You can email the publisher at [email protected] or use the message boards above.

THE WINDOW OF HORRORS,by H.L. Mencken

Originally published in The Smart Set, September 1917,under the pseudonym “William Drayham.”

CHAPTER I

The little shops nestle elegantly along the bright avenue. The tall buildings preen themselves in the sunlight. Their windows glisten and are like ranks upon ranks of little golden and silver butterflies. The people who stroll in the avenue are also quite elegant. They look idly at the luxurious automobiles which glide back and forth down the street. They seem very happy, as if nothing were wrong with the world, as if a carefully manicured and pomaded God were in his boudoir heaven.

They look at the little shop windows, these strollers; at the windows in which such pretty pictures are for sale, in which bizarre knick-knacks lure the eye.

Sometimes they pause in little polite clusters to gaze upon jewels which lie on black velveted surfaces or to admire the Japanese oddities—those fantastically colored and shaped bird cages and Mandarin gowns, potteries and silks—which make you dream for the moment. But always before the window of the Maisondes Robes they gather most thickly, they pause most delightedly.

For the window of the Maisondes Robes is entirely the despair of all the other shop keepers in the avenue. It is a Paradise of windows. It is a window of enchantments. It is a fairyland of chiffons and satins, tulles and cloths which I cannot name. The women who stroll in the Avenue sigh when they pause before it. Here are other window’s which exhibit clothes. But they are not like the window of the Maisondes Robes.

Here there is something strange, something which fascinates. It has an air, just as a Princess has an air. Even men stop to look into it. They behold Romance and Mystery and a loveliness which pales the effulgence of the sun.

Women behold their dreams herein. Before them float gowns which are to their souls as beautiful thoughts are to the souls of the poets. These gowns are worn by strange inanimate figures which stand remarkably silent, in attitudes so startling, so perfect that men often feel their hearts beat faster when they look at them and women always smile with envy.

It is not as if these things were real within the window of the Maisondes Robes. They are beyond reality. They belong in the region of masterpieces, of things which surpass nature and gladden the eyes of the world with visions of the ideal.

The shopkeepers often come to look upon this window and to study it. They search the world for and sometimes find such gowns as Mr. Hugo Blute manages to discover and place in his window. They buy of the best figures and employ the most artistic drapers and window trimmers. But even as Reynolds sought to learn the secrets of Titian by scraping the colors from the Venetian’s canvas, even as Wilde sought to untangle the tints of Huysmans, they fail.

You see in their windows only clothes, merely a conventional beauty which makes you think of money and of corsets. But in the window of the Maisondes Robes there are things you do not see and you search in your mind for fantasies, you dream of ball rooms and grottos, and the boulevard seems to you for the moment like some elegant and exquisite street in an Arabian Night.

CHAPTER II

On the morning of a certain day early in June the Maisondes Robes was unusually crowded. Usually but a woman or two was to be seen therein beside the very polite and pretty clerks. But this day witnessed twenty-seven women, all of them young, all of them possessed of various beauty. They entered one at a time, surveyed for a moment the gray walls, the costly modulated furnishings, and were approached by a matron with white hair and a regal step.

Thus one by one they were ushered through the sumptuous salesroom past the two great black framed mirrors and into an office which was at the rear. The pretty clerks seemed undisturbed by their advent. They stood in their places like figures in a stage set for Maeterlinck. At one side a willowy black-haired young woman walked slowly back and forth before the gaze of two customers who had alighted from an electric. The elder customer surveyed the willowy one through a lorgnette. A girl with her watched with intent interest the influx of the twenty-seven.

In the office the twenty-seven found chairs to sit upon and two long benches. Only a few were obliged to remain standing.

They had come in answer to a tiny advertisement which had appeared in the columns of the morning newspapers.

The advertisement read:

Wanted—Six of the most beautiful young women in Chicago to work as manikins. No references required. Foreign girls preferred. Apply in person to Mr. Hugo Blute,—East Michigan avenue, at 5 p.m., sharp.

The young women who now waited for Mr. Blute to arrive preserved a dignified silence and gazed at each other speculatively. Some were obviously of the demimonde—bold and artificial Venuses. Some were less elaborately dressed, but fresher looking and possessed of a reposeful prettiness. A few were remarkable-looking, remarkably featured, with eyes which glowed with violet fires.

They had been waiting less than ten minutes when Mr. Blute entered. There was a hurried shuffling of feet and a stir of great portent.

Mr. Blute was a Paganini of shopkeepers—a dwarf-like Paganini. He was a short man with a large head on which lay a mop of black hair, that gave him an appearance of incongruous ferocity. For otherwise he was an elegantly dressed little man, in an afternoon coat, carefully tapering and pressed trousers, pointed black patent leather shoes and linen quite resplendent.

Yet above this almost doll-like costume arose Mr. Blute’s massive head and hair. It was apparent that Mr. Blute gave this part of his person a great deal of attention. His face was carefully massaged, his hair was violently combed. His eyebrows, alas, were slightly stenciled and the swarthiness of his skin was relieved by a faint pink flush of some careful cosmetic.

But despite these things Mr. Blute’s nose remained obtrusively large, his lips obtrusively heavy, his eyes glistening and in an inexplicable manner, malignant. His hair remained likewise mop-like. There was something pathetic, in fact, about Mr. Blute when he powdered his nose as he did at frequent intervals, to remove the oily glisten which lay upon his skin.

He entered his office with the dapper step of a man who has small feet. He held a silk hat in his hand and a pair of yellow gloves in the other, together with a black lacquer cane.

The twenty-seven who awaited him eyed him with a kindred emotion. They were somewhat startled. It was always this way with people who gazed upon Mr. Blute for the first time. There was always something vaguely startling and dwarfish about the man until one became inured to him. People who encountered him suddenly would often feel an impulse to gasp.

“Good evening, ladies,” said Mr. Blute, in a thin, sweet voice, and depositing his hat, gloves and cane on top of a large mahogany desk he sat down in the swivel chair and surveyed the twenty-seven beauties his advertisement had brought together.

After his polite salutation he seemed to become all business at once.

He eyed his visitors with a general keenness, as one eyes an ensemble.

He announced:

“You will first fill out these blanks which I give you and then return them to me. Come forward one at a time, please.”

With an exaggerated restraint the twenty-seven obeyed. As they approached to receive their blanks a queer light kindled in Mr. Blute’s little black eyes.

The printed matter on the blanks requested each to state her age, her name, her address, her birthplace, and to give what relatives she had in the city, if any. There was a great scribbling among the twenty-seven, who had removed their gloves and revealed an assortment of beautiful and jeweled hands.

Mr. Blute appeared to wax mysteriously excited. He so far forgot himself as to open a drawer of his desk, extract a small powder puff and powder his heavy nose. He also rubbed his palms together and clucked genially with his tongue. One by one the twenty-seven returned the blanks amid a silence. In this silence Mr. Blute then studied the blanks for fully twenty minutes with an expression of intense absorption on his face. Each one he read carefully and placed in one of three divisions.

Finally he called the names of eight of the young women in the office and added:

“Those whose names I have called may go home.”

The eight beautiful women whose names had been pronounced arose frowning and walked with great dignity out of the office.

When they had left Mr. Blute clucked his tongue again and said:

“We can now proceed with more dispatch. Will Miss Margaret Swinburne step forward, please?”

A tall blonde detached herself and approached.

Mr. Blute eyed her closely.

“You have no father or mother,” he said, waving one of the blanks before him. “You are an orphan, yes?”

Miss Swinburne said, “Yes.”

“Good,” Mr. Blute chuckled.

He looked at her and bade her turn around.

He studied her features intently and after the pause announced, somewhat inanely, as may be seen:

“Excellent. I am devoted to orphans. I favor them in my shop. I employ them. I will employ you. Your duties, you know, will be only to wear beautiful clothes. Silks and laces. You understand what a manikin is?”

Miss Swinburne nodded graciously.

“To show my fashionable customers how beautiful are my clothes,” said Mr. Blute, as if Miss Swinburne hadn’t understood.

An excitement again appeared to possess him and as if to contain himself he added abruptly:

“You are accepted, Miss Swinburne. Will you sit over there?” In this same peculiar and abrupt manner Mr. Blute selected the five others from the group. There were several whom Mr. Blute dismissed reluctantly, gazing with glowing eyes upon their lovely faces and turning them around and around before him.

“Ah—ah—” he murmured each time. “You are what I want—what I desire—but—unsuited. Too bad.”

He shook his massive head sorrowfully, clucked dismally with his tongue and waved his hand toward the door. But on the whole the six whom he had chosen were among the most remarkable of the beautiful young women.

When the others had departed Mr. Blute sprang from his chair and announced sweetly.

“So. It is settled. You shall all wear beautiful clothes and receive twenty-five dollars each a week. Hugo Blute is not cheap. No. He is—ha!”

He indulged in a vague trilling little laugh and, paused thus in his praise, he assumed a droll position, his short arms folded across his bulky chest, his large head thrown back.

“But there must be a contract, ladies,” he went on. “You must agree to place yourselves in my hands for two days. I will take you to the St. John Hotel and send you my most beautiful dresses to become acquainted with. I wish you to try them on and become used to their lines and able to wear them—magnificently.”

Here Mr. Blute indulged in his little trilling laugh again and the six beautiful young women regarded his mysterious amusement with six beautiful smiles.

“You will wear them a long time,” he said. “I employ orphans and am kind to them. I employ them as long as they remain beautiful. Your only duties while I employ you will be to show off my exquisite dresses to the fashionable ladies. Do I speak plainly? Am I understood?”

A chorus of “Yesses” answered him.

Mr. Blute became suddenly animate. His short legs seemed to prance. He passed among the six manikins to be and shook hands with each of them, patting them tenderly on their arms and clucking up at them.

“Follow me, young ladies,” he added. “My automobile will take you to the hotel. Is there anyone of you will have to notify someone of her absence?”

There was a pause. During this pause Mr. Blute became dark and his face glistened.

He eyed each of the six beautiful young women with an ominous, somewhat aggrieved frown, and waited.

After a brief silence a pretty black-haired girl raised her voice.

“I must tell my uncle,” she said.

“What’s your name?” Mr. Blute asked curtly.

“Miss Marlow.”

“Miss Marlow,” said Mr. Blute, “you may go home to your uncle. Now, is there anyone else?”

The dismissed one hesitated. Mr. Blute ignored her. The remaining five then watched Miss Marlow leave the office and appeared slightly puzzled. But when she had gone, Mr. Blute diverted their attention with a violent laugh.

“Very well,” he cried. “Follow me.”

He led his smiling and elated troupe through the luxurious salesroom to a large green limousine which waited at the curb.

It had grown dark. The avenue glowed in the dusk. Vivid patches of light gleamed over the pavements. Clusters of lamps shone gaily down the line of the curbing. People were still strolling leisurely, elegantly by. But now over the avenue was an air of quest, a spirit of masquerade. The hurrying cabs and motors perforated the gloom with their long shafts of light.

“Step in,” said Mr. Blute to his troupe. “The chauffeur will be here directly. All arrangements have been made.”

One by one the five disappeared into the tonneau. He waited and closed the door upon them. He exuded a joyous politeness, laughing aimlessly, bowing elaborately to the laden tonneau, returning briskly to his establishment. Inside Mr. Blute spoke briefly to two of his pretty clerks who were covering the stock and fixtures preparatory to leaving.

“Run along,” he ordered, “and play. Run along, children. Don’t waste time. Time is valuable, very valuable to the young. All, make the most of life.”

He patted the two clerks upon the arm in a happy, paternal fashion and approached the white-haired and regal stepping matron—his bookkeeper.

“Run along, run along, Miss Jones,” he said to her. He waited until his staff had clothed itself and bidden him good evening, and, as the last one passed through the door, he hurried into his office.

Five minutes later a man in a great black coat wearing goggles and a pointed cap mounted the drivers seat of Mr. Blute’s machine. This person clucked with his tongue in a way highly reminiscent of his employer, Mr. Blute, and in fact seemed possessed of another of his habits. For, as he adjusted himself in the seat, he extracted a little powder puff from one of his large pockets and dabbed whimsically at his nose. This tell-tale ritual accomplished, the mysterious chauffeur swung his car into the mass of traffic and spun away in the direction of the St. John Hotel.

CHAPTER III

Mr. Blute, looking tired and slightly disheveled, entered the Maisondes Robes the following morning. He glanced keenly at his pretty clerks who were standing in a solemn little group near the center of the room and bending over an opened newspaper. Mr. Blute paused, he came near them.

“Too bad, ladies,” he said. “It is a terrible thing.”

“Oh, we are so sorry,” one of them answered, and Mr. Blute, shaking his head, sadly passed on into his office.

He closed the door and drew from his pocket a newspaper and sitting down at his desk read the account of the tragedy which had overtaken five young women and an intoxicated chauffeur.

The newspaper stated the young women had been selected by Mr. Blute as the most beautiful in Chicago and were being escorted to the St. John Hotel in the automobile belonging to the proprietor of the Maisondes Robes. The chauffeur as he guided the machine had appeared to be intoxicated to at least several crossing policemen who remembered his passing. He had, this diabolical chauffeur, finally ended by crashing through the slight guard at the rivers edge and into the river, at Adams street. The bridge at this point had been open at the time. Repairs which were being made on the structure had necessitated the closing of the street and thus it was that the accident had been witnessed by no one. An officer named Maloney was the first to arrive on the scene. He peered into the black water and saw great ripples dancing under the red lights of the bridge. It was eight o’clock according to Policeman Maloney.

Mr. Blute studied the story closely as he read, rereading several paragraphs.

Pressing a button, he summoned one of his pretty clerks and ordered her to secure him copies of the afternoon papers as soon as they appeared.

As he waited their arrival, two policemen desecrated the interior of the establishment with their heavy feet and loud voices, and ended by being ushered into the proprietors presence. They informed him that his limousine had been fished out of the river, little the worse for wear, but that the police had been unable to recover the bodies of the five young women.

Mr. Blute listened gravely. He answered their questions freely, telling them of the chauffeur whom he had only hired two days before and whose first name was Harold.

“It is awful,” said Mr. Blute, covering his face with his hands. “I had prepared rooms at the St. John Hotel and given the man instructions to go there at once. The tragedy has unnerved me, gentlemen.”

“We are draggin’ fer the ladies and the chauffeur,” said one of the policemen, “and will let you know, Mr. Blute, as soon as we find anything.”

To the newspaper reporters who arrived at the Maisondes Robes as the police were leaving, Mr. Blute announced that he would bestow a sum of $100 upon each of the families of the deceased five young women. He revealed their names, as he had done to the police, described their beauties, dwelt bitterly upon the drunkenness of the miserable chauffeur, wrung his hands and clucked solemnly with his tongue.

For eight days the police continued to drag the river for the bodies of the six victims. During this time, apparently overcome by the disaster, Mr. Blute relapsed into a morose condition. His pretty clerks saw him but little. He called upon the police captain in charge of the search for the bodies daily.

At the end of the eighth day the body of a young woman was found near the mouth of the river. The body was taken to the morgue and there identified by a young man as the remains of Mary Collins, his sister. Miss Collins, it developed at once, was one of the five beautiful women who had been chosen by the discriminating Mr. Blute.

The brother identified the body by means of the clothes the young woman wore and a signet ring which she had borrowed from him only a week before. The features were discolored beyond recognition by the water, seeming also to have sustained certain bruises.

In quick succession during that night four other bodies were recovered from the mouth of the river. Like the first, their faces were disfigured by discolorations and bruises. The coroner and police explained this fact by the theory that the bruises had been sustained in the accident itself, the plunge into the river, and the discolorations had been brought on by the abrasions.

Three of the bodies were identified by landladies. One was a Miss Helen Lowrey. The second, Miss Dorothy Janes. The third, Miss Anna Hyde. The landladies wept and declared the victims had roomed with them when alive. The identifications were made by means of the clothing, of rings, ornaments, shoes and hosiery. Mr. Blute himself established the identity of the fourth, remembering in particular the black and white checked suit in which the body was attired—and the long gray gloves.

An inquest was held and the bodies buried. The search for the drunken chauffeur was discontinued. Mr. Blute reimbursed the brother of one of the victims with his check for $100, and thus two weeks after the evening of the tragedy the matter was forgotten, and business at the Maisondes Robes was resumed.

Even Mr. Blute appeared to have recovered some of his joyous and paternal air which the incident had for the time taken from him. The elegant people who walked in the avenue passed the window of the famous establishment and soon forgot, as they gazed at the exquisite interior, the story of the five beautiful women, the drunken chauffeur and the open bridge.

The night after the inquest, Mr. Blute walked briskly towards his home. His automobile was still suffering repair. He had ridden to a point within four blocks of where he lived in the street car. It was warm and the promise of a storm was in the sultry air.

Mr. Blute’s home was a large red brick house located in a peculiarly dismal part of the city which had once been the center of wealth and society. The mansions which had once lent an air of solid and tasteful affluence to the street now stood with their windows broken, their porches sunken, their stairs overgrown. Large “For Sale” signs painted white, shone out of the darkness. Here and there were some still inhabited.

A stagnation had apparently overtaken the district. To the south furious building activities had converted the almost prairies of twenty years ago into populous resident sections. To the north the avenue had changed the scene into one of glitter and prosperity.

But in this space, where stood the home of Mr. Blute a decay had fallen. The night lay somberly upon it, the sagging outlines of the tumble-down mansions appeared faintly out of the unrelieved gloom.

Before one of the more preserved of these mansions Mr. Blute stopped. A single light burned in an upper window.

Mr. Blute, peering into the darkness about him, suddenly mounted the steps and let himself into the house with a key.

He locked the door carefully behind him.

For a moment he stood still and listened and then he walked to a front window in the large barren room to the right of the hall and dropped to his knees in front of a cracked pane.

He remained thus on his knees for ten minutes, peering cautiously into the street, only his mop of hair and gleaming eyes visible above the ledge.

After gazing into the vacant street in this odd manner, Mr. Blute arose, rubbed his palms together and, smiling, tiptoed gently up the stairs.

The old mansion became full of creakings and groanings as Mr. Blute progressed. But at the top of the flight he paused and the noises ceased.

He paused and peered intently at a door behind which a light burned. Into his eyes came, it seemed, an answering light, a faintly ecstatic gleam.

Mr. Blute inserted a key in the door lock and turned it. The door opened slowly.

The room in front of Mr. Blute was illuminated by a lighted gas jet. Across the walls fell long trembling shadows. He walked directly to the jet and turned on the light fuller. Two cabinets, in which a variety of odd surgical instruments and bottles of colored liquids reposed, came into view. Also ranged across one end of the room there appeared to be five long tables on which lay the bodies of the five young women, who had entered Mr. Blute s automobile one evening two weeks ago.

CHAPTER IV

Mr. Blute, as if remembering something, dashed back to the door and locked it with the key. He then returned to the other end of the room and surveyed the contents of the five tables. Each of them was partially covered with a black cloth.

“Ah, my beauties,” said Mr. Blute softly. “Everything is settled. You have been decently buried. And one of you has cost me an extra $100.”

He frowned at the middle figure and wagged a reproving forefinger at it.

“Why didn’t you mention that brother of yours, eh? Pah! Women are never to be trusted,” he growled.

But recovering his good spirits Mr. Blute clucked genially with his tongue, walked to one of the cabinets and proceeded to remove an array of apparatus, instruments and bottles.

As he made these preparations his eyes strayed continually to the bodies on the tables. He kept mumbling to himself:

“Orphans, excellent. Ah, beauties. I have made no mistakes…no mistakes.”

The proprietor of the Maisondes Robes then spread out his strange paraphernalia on a sixth and smaller table. His mop of hair became awry, his eyes gleamed and an unlovely oil gradually overspread his face.

But his hands were busy, dexterously busy. They mixed the liquids of the bottles, they lighted little gas burners and cooked little pots. There was an elaborate methodically about Mr. Blute during these operations. He counted things, he insisted upon laying everything straight and keeping everything clean.

Towards the end of his labors he grew excited, gazing into the bubbling pots, clucking with his tongue and finally prancing up and down and rubbing his palms vigorously together.

It was obvious that Mr. Blute was preparing a solution, a delicate, difficult solution from the intensity of his maneuverings. Having prepared this in at least five different ways—there were five little pots, Mr. Blute filled a long hollow needle-like instrument with the bubbling liquid from one of the pots.

“It is perfect,” he mumbled, “perfect. The perfect fluid. Ah, what would the Ptolomies have given for it?”

He then folded his short arms across his bosom and surveyed with dignity the five bodies which lay stiff and beautiful upon the five tables.

“One more injection,” he mumbled, “and it is complete. But first another bath—one more bath.”

Opening a drawer beneath one of the cabinets, Mr. Blute extracted a large bottle containing a violet liquid.

With this in his hand he approached first the body of Margaret Swinburne, looking as she had looked when he had asked her her name in his office two weeks ago. With the violet liquid he proceeded to bathe her face.

An odd spicy smell crept into the room.

The inanimate face underwent simultaneously a remarkable change.

The skin appeared to revive, the flesh seemed to bloom, a glowing tint of life suffused the throat.

“Four baths,” mumbled Mr. Blute, “I must remember. Only four. And I must not forget the hair.”

Darting to the cabinet he returned with a bottle of dark liquid and this he applied expertly to the head. The blonde hair, which he loosened, shimmered under the application. Slowly its color changed, Mr. Blute drenching it delicately with the contents of the bottle. It became a smouldering auburn. This accomplished, Mr. Blute returned to his long needle instrument.

“Now,” he addressed the figure upon which he had been working: “We shall see. This way.”

With quick little movements he inserted the point of the needle into the tips of the slender fingers, each time loosing some of the liquid by means of the silver plunger which formed the upper part of the instrument. The eleventh injection Mr. Blute made into the heart.

As soon as they were finished he seized the body in a frenzy and staggering under its weight carried it to a bench which stood near the cabinets.

“Now,” he cried, “the pose, the pose. This way. No. Turn the head. The foot out. You will sit. A morning costume. So. The right foot in. The arm out. The fingers. My God, are you stupid! The fingers, so; open one. Close the other. The knee less bent. Ah! Excellent. Leaning forward a bit. All, what grace. As if you listened. So. As if you had something to say, ha, ha.”

As he spoke or rather ejaculated, Mr. Blute’s hands manipulated the body before him. It resembled, the operation did, some weird sculpturing. But the pose he finally achieved seemed to delight him. He hovered around it. Now and then he added a finishing touch, a final angle. But soon the limbs ceased to obey his sensitive movements. He strained the wrist in an effort to undo a curve. He might as well have sought to undo the curve of some marble wrist. A gleam of triumph came into his eyes.

“You harden quickly,” he gasped. “Quicker than ever. An hour quicker! I have barely time to adjust! Eh! And this time you will last longer; yes. Two years, my beauty. And then perhaps—who knows—the fluid which is forever. I think now, that you will do.”

The remainder of the night Mr. Blute spent in similar ministrations upon the other four bodies. Each he bathed in the peculiarly smelling liquid. Each revived under his touch, losing its still ghastly stiffness, growing mysteriously alive, acquiring a delicate blooming transparency of skin as of death made beautiful. The hair of each Mr. Blute dyed a different color!

At dawn Mr. Blute had finished. The five were posed. They lay now upon the tables in impossible posturings, ludicrously sinister, lovely and vicious, like a family of houris caught by some sudden enchantment which had perpetuated them in their casual graces. Each had suffered the careful and elaborate adjusting of Mr. Blute.

Tired and disheveled, he stood in the center of the room and panted. The air was full of an almost suffocating odor. But a prodigious strength seemed to be his.

With a great sigh he lifted the body of Miss Swinburne upon his shoulder and carried her into an adjacent room.

On the floor of this room were laid six oblong boxes. Their lids had been opened and each of the boxes contained a naked wax model to which was affixed a wire standard.

It was Mr. Blute’s purpose to sever the wire standards from the wax models and attach them to the bodies of his five young women. This he did carefully, placing each of the bodies, when he had finished, into each box occupied by the wax dummies.

CHAPTER V

An hour later Mr. Blute sat and waited for the arrival of the wagon from the Maisondes Robes. He had washed his face and hands, changed his clothes, powdered his nose and violently brushed his hair.

The wagon came and Mr. Blute supervised the loading of the oblong boxes, which had been re-crated and carefully relabeled by their owner. Seated then on one of them, the erratic Mr. Blute was driven into the avenue and around to a point in the rear of the Maisondes Robes.

He emerged into his establishment and ordered his clerks to bring out the five costumes which had been selected. Then standing with the fluffy silken mass in his arms, he announced: “I do not wish to be disturbed until I ring,” and retired into his office where the five oblong boxes had been taken.

He uncrated them one at a time, attiring them in lingerie petticoats, shoes and the costumes.

To the first he pinned a bit of paper on the hem of the petticoat. On the paper were the initials M. C which, in Mr. Blute’s mind, were obviously the initials of Mary Collins.

He placed the carefully dressed body in a corner and proceeded with the second. His actions were tender, wistful and expert.

It was well along in the afternoon when Mr. Blute issued from his office and summoned his pretty clerks.

“We will not place the figures in the window. We will take the figures which are in there out and put them in the boxes. Handle everything carefully, ladies.”

The clerks stepped at the door of Mr. Blute’s private office and gasped.

Confronting them were five beautiful young women attired in the height of exquisite fashion. One of them was standing smiling with a simple and yet startling grace to her outlines. A second was seated and gazing nonchalantly at her dainty boot. She seemed to be meditating upon the filmiest of secrets. A third was standing with her head turned and her mouth slightly opened in a look of pleasant surprise. A fourth was seated, leaning forward as if in conversation. Words trembled on her lips and there was about her the air of a woman who is struggling to reveal something of piquant importance. The fifth stood straight and tall, her eyes lowered, her arms listless, as if she were dreaming for the instant of some memories far distant. They were all radiant and appeared to the astounded clerks to be alive.

“Beauties, eh?” clucked Mr. Blute, rubbing his palms together.

The clerks admired his handiwork without a word.

Then amid the delighted exclamations of his employees and three fashionable customers, the five models were carried one by one into the spacious and wonderfully draped window of the Maisondes Robes.

From the sidewalk Mr. Blute surveyed the effect and pranced excitedly up and down. His face moved with queer grimaces and he appeared obsessed by a deep and silent joy. He raised his eyes to the sky and blinked in a solemn sort of thanksgiving or prayer.

Within the shop his clerks talked among themselves.

“Those are certainly the most beautiful figures Blute has had yet,” said the first one. “They are remarkable. I never saw anything like them.”

The second one came out of the window shaking her head solemnly.

“Yes,” she agreed. “They are far superior to the last three figures we had, although I can’t see why Mr. Blute is throwing those last three out. They were better than anything on the avenue and hadn’t begun to melt. These must have cost a fortune.”

Miss Jones, the white-haired and regal-stepping one interrupted in a superior manner.

“A man like Mr. Blute,” she said, “does not balk at expense in pursuing his art. I have been here for eight years and during that time he has had four shipments from France, each one better than the other. This is the fifth.”

The conversation ceased as Mr. Blute re-entered his establishment. After gracefully receiving the congratulations of the occupants he retired to his office. He closed the door behind him.

Then after a pause he opened the steel door of a wall safe and extracted from its interior a large ledger. This he carried to his desk.

Opening it to a blank page he wrote in it as follows:

Fifth Importation

For bodies from the Merville, Holmes, Wilmot and City Hospitals @ $10 each: $50.

For poison gun and limousine attachment: $25

For embalming, mummifying chemicals: $200

For rash statement to the press: $100

For expressage of hospital bodies to mouth of the river: $30

For wax models from France, destroyed: $400

“I guess that’s all,” murmured Mr. Blute, and with a sigh he totaled the column.

A light of mystic satisfaction shone from him. He powdered his nose with the puff and rubbing his hands together added to himself:

“Eight hundred and five dollars! Twice as much as last time, ha! Hobbies cost money. All, well, art for art’s sake.”

Mr. Blute then returned the ledger in the wall safe, locked the steel door and with a light brisk step re-entered his display room.

On the sidewalk a crowd of men and women had gathered. The men stared intensely into the window, their eyes smiling, their hearts beating fast. The women gazed enviously fascinated as always by this Paradise of windows, this fairyland of silks and laces and tulles, and graces. Exclamations of delight and wonder came from all sides, exclamations of astonishment and joy.

Mr. Blute stood in the plate glass door of his establishment, his large head thrown back, his hands clasped behind him and regarded the admiring throng with an expansive, though modest smile.

THE FOOTSTEPS ON THE STAIRS,by William J. Wintle

Originally published in Ghost Gleams, 1921.

Halton Square, Oldchester, was not at all the kind of place that one would associate with anything romantic or unusual. In fact, it was commonplace and ordinary to the last degree. While the houses in it were not exactly new, they were by no means old; and not one of them seemed to possess the smallest feature of interest. Until quite recently they had been dwelling houses, but were now with few exceptions converted into places of business.

No. 15, on the north side of the square, might be described as only half converted. It was now a business house, but it still remained a dwelling house. When Thomas Boston, general merchant, removed his place of business to No. 15, he removed himself and his family as well. The lower regions of the house were devoted to the purposes of the business, and the upper ones to those of the household.

The latter consisted of Mrs. Boston and a general servant whose name was Angelina and for that reason was known as Sarah. What the business consisted of is not quite so easily stated. The business of a general merchant is like charity in that it covers a multitude of sins. Far be it from us to suggest that Mr. Thomas Boston was a worse sinner than other dwellers in the square, or that his business was other than honest and straightforward. But what it was, few people knew exactly except himself. In fact, it may be `ed if he could have stated its precise nature in a sentence: so why should we attempt it?

Mr. Boston was a general merchant: he dealt in things in general. All was fish that happened to get into his net. He was ready for anything that came. At one time he was running a special line in mouse-traps; at another he was selling margarine on commission; a few weeks later he was making a book on the races; and at the time of our story he was disposing of a special line of brushes and brooms which for some reason had the maker’s name carefully removed.

The police seemed to take an interest in Mr. Boston and his business, and they paid friendly calls at moments when they thought that they were least expected. But in this they were mistaken. They were never unexpected. Mr. Boston lived in the constant expectation that the next footstep would be that of a sergeant or perhaps an inspector; and he was always ready to greet them with a cordial word of welcome.

He used to be fond of remarking that you don’t catch an old bird on the hop; but why an old bird should not hop like other birds, he did not explain. For some reason or other the police did not seem to be specially pleased with the cordiality with which they were always welcomed at No. 15; but then some people are never pleased. Perhaps they would have liked it better if Mr. Boston had not been quite so ready for them when they called.

Now it is perhaps hardly necessary to say that a man like him, with plenty of sound sense, was not at all the sort of person to indulge in fancies or to imagine things; and that makes it all the more curious that the strange things we have to tell should have happened in his house of all places.

The house itself had nothing remarkable about it. It was just an ordinary house of moderate size, and had been built about fifty years. There was no shop; but the front room on the ground floor served for business purposes, while that behind it had been turned into an office for an elderly man who combined in himself the functions of shopman, book-keeper, corresponding clerk, office boy and messenger on a salary of a pound a week. How he did it, nobody knew except himself: why he did it, the police thought that they knew. But they were not quite sure; and this was one of the reasons why they took such a friendly interest in the business.

Below these rooms was a basement, reached by an area from the street; and this was used for storing the goods in which Mr. Boston happened to be dealing at the moment. It could also be reached by a staircase indoors. The stairs to the first floor were opposite the front door, and went straight up without a turn. Facing the top of them was a small room which served as a private office for Mr. Boston; and the rest of the floor consisted of living rooms. Opposite the private office, the stairs turned and went on up to the second floor, where the bedrooms and a couple of lumber-rooms accounted for the rest of the house.

Now if you had attempted to go down into the area from the street after dark, you would have found it necessary to be very careful. There was no lamp on that side of the square; and if there did not happen to be a moon at the time, the area was then as dark as it well could be. Anyone down there could not be seen from the road unless some inquisitive policeman happened to turn his bull’s eye lantern in that direction.

And if you had looked for the bell pull at the area door, you would not have found one. Why should you? The bell was at the front door, as is usual in all respectable houses. But if you had been curious enough to feel round the edge of the frame of that area door in the dark, you would have found a small button; and if you had pressed it, a whirring sound would have been heard in Mr. Boston’s private office on the first floor. It was not a bell; for he was too thoughtful of the convenience of his neighbours—to say nothing of his friends, the police—to wish that the noise of a bell should disturb anyone late at night. And it was apt to be very late indeed when that whirring sound brought him down to the area door to see if it was the postman. It never was; but he did not seem to mind.

The people who called and used that little button always came on very private business indeed; and Mr. Boston always went down himself. And so thoughtful was he of the comfort of the neighbours that he had covered the fanlight over the front door with thick felt, so that no light should show through when he went downstairs to the area door to let in his visitor. And the stairs were never lighted late at night for the same reason: he always used an electric torch.

Now it happened one night in November that Mr. Boston was working very late indeed in his office. In fact, it was not night but morning, for the clock had just struck three. It was odd that he should be up so late, for he did not seem to be very busy. Indeed, he was simply smoking a cigar and reading a newspaper. If you had looked over his shoulder, you would have seen the subject that was interesting him. He was reading about a burglary that had taken place the previous night at a country house about twelve miles away, when the thieves had got off with a large quantity of plate and jewellery. And he was expecting a caller before the night was out.

Suddenly a soft whirring sound was heard in the office. Mr. Boston laid down his paper and smiled. But he did not rise. He waited till the sound came a second and a third time. Then he knew that the visitor at the area door was “all right.” It was someone who knew the ropes.

Mr. Boston rose, slipped his feet into a pair of thick felt slippers—for why should he disturb people by treading noisily on the stairs?—took up a small electric torch, tested it to see that it was working well, slipped a revolver into his pocket, and went downstairs. He reached the area door in perfect silence, but he did not open it at once. He first made a slight scratching noise on the door with his finger nail: and in reply came three very soft taps from the other side. Then he smiled again, and opened the door.

No one was there! Mr. Boston instantly closed the door. He had no wish to attract attention; and it at once struck him that his visitor had heard the approaching footsteps of some quite unnecessary policeman and had taken cover in the disused coal cellar, the door of which was always kept unfastened for such emergencies. He would only have to wait a minute for the coast to become clear again.

He waited perhaps two minutes, and then came a very soft tap on the door. Mr. Boston repeated the scratching signal; and in response came the three taps. He opened the door; but again no one was there. He closed the door quickly and silently, scratched his head and looked puzzled. He had never had it happen twice before. There must have been another interruption just as he was opening the door. He waited again for perhaps ten minutes, but nothing more happened and he went back upstairs to his office, where he sat up till five o’clock. As his visitors had sufficient common sense not to run the risk of calling later than that hour, he then went to bed.

In the morning he thought it over and could not make it out at all. Someone must have rung the buzzer; and someone must have been at the door when he gave the signal and heard the three taps in answer. And the visitor must have meant business, for he stayed to seek admission a second time. But why did he try no more? Besides, he could not have got away in the couple of seconds that it took to open the door, unless he went into the cellar—a device that was only known to the people whom Mr. Boston regarded as “all right.” And in that case why had he gone away without trying once more to leave behind what he had presumably brought? As a rule, his late-at-night visitors were only too anxious to unload themselves of the goods that they brought—a fact which enabled him to drive many a good bargain.

The whole thing was very puzzling; and he turned for relief to the morning paper. And it was a curious thing that the very first article to which he turned was the latest news of the big burglary.

But there was no news. The police had got a clue—as they generally have—but the burglars had got the goods. They had got clear away; and as all the stations had been watched and it was known that no doubtful characters had entered or left the district the burglary was evidently the work of local men. The stolen valuables could not be very far off. And then following the usual remarks about the importance of suppressing the receivers of stolen goods and thus deprive burglars of a market for their ill-gotten spoil. Mr. Boston read all this with a broad smile. Of course a general dealer had no interest in stolen goods.

Nothing further occurred during the day, except that a badly disguised detective called during the morning to buy a broom, and wasted nearly an hour in talking about things in general. But in the evening, just as it was growing dusk, Mr. Boston happened to go to the door and glanced down into the area. He was surprised to see a man standing at the door, apparently tapping quietly. And the man had a large bundle partly hidden under a large cloak. Could anybody have been mad enough to come at such a risky time? It must be somebody new to the business; and he would need to be handled very cautiously. Perhaps it would be safer to have nothing to do with him.

Mr. Boston glanced round the square to see that no one was approaching, then looked into the area again, and saw—no one! The area was empty.

What in the world did this mean? Had the fellow gone into the cellar without any reason? This must be looked into. So he once more glanced around the square, saw that all was quiet, and then fetched a scuttle and shovel and went down to the area and into the cellar to get some coal. No one was there!

But as he looked out, he caught a momentary glimpse of the same man, with the bundle under his cloak; and he was again tapping at the door of the basement. Mr. Boston only paused to put down the coal scuttle, and then stepped out of the cellar. The man had completely vanished. But it was impossible for anyone to get up the steps to the street in so short a time. The whole affair was most bewildering.

Mr. Boston sat up late again that night. He was still expecting a visitor; and this time he was not disappointed. About two in the morning the buzzer sounded; and, after the usual precautions, the visitor was admitted to the basement. As he proved to be an old business friend, he was taken up to the private office, where he produced from various strange places in his clothes a collection of jewels that quite agreed with the descriptions in the newspapers of that week.

The business transactions that then took place between the two men were strictly private and confidential; so it is not for us to inquire what they were. All we know is that they were arranged, after some grumbling on the part of the visitor. When he had gone, Mr. Boston pulled the rug from under his desk, lifted up a small trap-door in the floor, and put a parcel out of sight. Then he replaced the rug, extinguished the light, and went to bed.

About an hour later he woke up suddenly and distinctly heard the buzzer sounding in his office. He was not expecting another visitor; and he was very comfortable in bed: but business is business and must be attended to. So he hastily rose, put on some clothes, and went down to the basement. Then followed an exact repetition of the strange incidents of the previous night. It seemed certain that someone was there, but nobody was visible. If Mr. Boston had not been a strict teetotaller, he would really have begun to wonder if he had not better become one.

Nothing unusual now happened for about a week. Mr. Boston had branched out in another line of business and was exploiting a new soap which was warranted to wash everything except the human skin. And somehow the police seemed to have taken quite an interest in soap, if one might judge by the number of constables in plain clothes who called to buy it.

And then a very puzzling thing occurred. It was Tuesday night about ten o’clock. Mr. Boston was sitting in his office, smoking a final cigar before going to bed. He was not expecting any visitor, and there was no reason to stay up late. His wife and the servant had gone upstairs half an hour before. He was just putting his desk straight before following their example, when he suddenly paused and listened.

Someone was coming up the stairs from the basement! What could this mean? And who could it be? As we have already explained, the office was on the first landing, and from the door anyone could see down the stairs to the ground floor and up the stairs to the second floor. Mr. Boston quietly took his revolver out of the table drawer, saw that it was loaded, opened the door, and waited. The steps could be distinctly heard. They came up the stairs from the basement, and then along the ground floor passage. Now they would have to come up to the first floor, and then he would see who this intruder was.

He held the revolver in readiness. There were some valuable goods in hiding under the floor of his office; and the men with whom he did business would not stick at a trifle. It would not do to take any risks. And now the steps began to come up the stairs to the first floor. But—it was very strange—he could not see anyone, although the light from his office shone on the stairs and he had also flashed his electric torch on them. The steps came up the stairs, seemed to pause for a moment outside his office door, and then went on to the second floor. And yet he saw no one!

After a moment’s hesitation, he went up after the invisible intruder; and at the farthest end of the passage on the second floor he caught just a glimpse of the man in the cloak whom he had seen about a week before in the area tapping at the basement door. The man seemed to melt away into nothing just as he caught sight of him. He thought it as well to visit each room and make sure that no intruder was there; but he found no one. Nor did he make any discoveries when he went downstairs and explored the basement. All was quiet and everything was in its usual order. The whole affair was a complete mystery.