Бретт Холлидей - Mike Shayne Mystery Magazine, Vol. 34, No. 3, February 1974

Well, she thought, I’ll soon find out...

She had been standing perfectly still, holding her breath, utterly undecided as to what to do.

There were three ways she could go, none of them exactly promising. She could feel her way back the way she had come, try to open the closed door and face her antagonist if it were still there. She could work her way onward through the “tunnel of darkness” until she reached the bathroom and there try the light switch. Or she could slide open one of the wardrobe closet doors and hide inside.

Eleanor decided upon the second course as the one her enemy would least expect her to follow. Moving slowly, carefully, silently, she took long seconds to cover the six feet that separated her from her goal. As she felt the door in front of her and found the knob and opened it, she welcomed the light that flowed dimly through the room’s small, pebbled window.

After the Calcutta-hole darkness of the passage, it was like sunlight at high noon. Thanks to the adjustment of her eyes, she could make out the bowl, the toilet seat, the long rectangle of the tub and the stall shower beyond it without difficulty. She could even see the switch, within easy reach on the wall to her right.

Again, she hesitated. If she turned it on, she would become an easy target for anyone within range and armed. This, she told herself, was nonsense. If anyone were within range, he was in a position to dispose of her in such light as there was.

Taking another deep breath, she pressed the switch button — and the bathroom was flooded with light and utterly empty save for herself.

All at once, she felt utterly idiotic standing there in her sweat-damp pajamas, holding the loaded pistol in her right hand. The whole evening became farcical rather than grisley. Squaring her shoulders, she marched back through the corridor, opened the bedroom door — and was greeted by the warm glow of the shaded lamp on the cherrywood bedside table.

She remembered, then, that Lakeside, like many another old dwelling built before electric lighting came into use, had frequent fusebox problems. Evidently, their condition had not been improved over the past seven years. As for the corridor door that had closed behind her, it could have resulted from a number of natural causes.

Yet not a trace of draft or breeze stirred the air of the room — nor could she remember feeling any since coming upstairs. Perhaps, she thought, the current of her own body passing through had made the door swing shut behind her. She retraced her steps, testing this hypothesis, but this time the door did not move.

Moving back into the bedroom, she finally decided that, if puzzling, it was not exactly grounds for renewed panic. She went back to the bed, realized that she was still holding the revolver, put it back in the night table drawer and closed it.

She told herself sharply that she had allowed herself to have a first class case of the old fashioned vapors, that she was going to take her bath and get back into bed and get the sleep she needed after a tiring day and evening. It was high time to set the spirits in the old house at rest — at least let them mind their own business.

Still, after closing the drawer upon the gun, she hesitated, again holding her breath, listening. She could have sworn she heard a noise. But, like the previous sounds she had heard, it remained tantalizingly out of earshot when she sought to fix it firmly.

I’m getting them again, she thought.

And then she heard them again...

This time, the sounds slowly became identifiable as human voices and movement. The voices grew louder, then ceased, but she heard definite sounds of footfalls in the hallway outside the room. They, too, grew louder as they approached the bedroom door, then halted, to be succeeded by a gentle knocking and her former father-in-law’s voice saying, “Eleanor, are you all right?”

She said, finding to her surprise that her voice was quite steady, “I’m all right, Alan. Why — is something the matter?”

“A little fusebox trouble,” he replied, “Henry has fixed it. These damnable antique circuits! May I come in?”

She was puzzled but replied in the affirmative after slipping into the bed and covering her sweat-dark pajamas with the sheet. He entered, wearing a dark blue flannel robe over blue-and-white-striped pajamas, and she was shocked again by his likeness to his son, especially with his usually perfectly groomed hair tousled.

He said, “I hate to disturb you further, my dear, but since we are both up...”

All trace of anger had left him. His manner could not have been more charming as he stood by the bedside, hands buried in the pockets of his robe, looking down at her with a faint hint of apology in his raised left eyebrow.

She knew what it was, tried to make it easy for him. After all...

“I suppose it’s the house,” she said.

“One final plea. It means more to me than you have any idea of to live out my days here at Lakeside. I have had a document drawn up. With your signature, it will give me and the house life tenure.”

“Alan,” she said, feeling dreadful about it, “I hate to sound like a heartless monster, but it’s too late. The contracts have already been signed and the parties concerned are merely awaiting word of my visit here to go ahead. What you ask is impossible.”

Very quietly, he said, “Eleanor, nothing is really impossible. You could stop them.”

“But I can’t!” She all but wailed it. “And it’s not my fault. It was Clara who got the whole thing launched while I was abroad. I didn’t really understand what was happening until it was too late.”

“Clara!” He all but spit the words.

“I don’t blame you for being angry,” she said, “and part of the responsibility is mine. I should have read the proposal more carefully. At the time, though, I was not too well.”

His hands stirred in his robe pockets. He sucked in his breath, then said, “Sleep on it, my dear. I’ll let you read the paper I have prepared in the morning. Perhaps by then you’ll feel differently about destroying this fine old place.”

“Perhaps.” It was the best she could do to reassure him, even though it meant little. A few hours would hardly alter the situation Clara had brought down upon the old man. Clara...

As Alan, Senior, closed the hall door quietly behind him, Eleanor hugged her knees and pondered the paradox of her stepmother — a woman as hard headed as a steel bit, yet sufficiently sensitive to be in great demand as a medium.

You and your Gerard! Eleanor thought, uncoiling and lying down, managing to turn out the light just before slumber overcame her and she fell into a sound sleep...

When she awoke, it was still pitch dark both outside and in the room. She lay there, while the tatters of sleep dissipated like shreds of cloud scattered by a sudden gust of wind. She had a distinct impression that someone — something — had awakened her and she lay perfectly still, waiting for some further sound.

It came, and this time there was no question but that it was I sound made by some alien agency — she heard the hall door shut softly and knew instantly that it was the sound of its being opened that had wakened her. Since her back was to the door, she could not try to see who the invader was without revealing herself to be awake... and she was not ready for that.

Mercifully, the bedside table with its loaded drawer was on her side of the bed, toward the tall windows that looked out at the night over the porch roof.

Then she heard the unmistakable creak of a floorboard complaining under the weight of a human foot. Then it came again and then was replaced by the softer sound of a footfall on the rug. Two more steps and whoever it was would be standing directly over the bed. It was time to do something...