The House that Stood Still Read online

  The robot wanted only to have the ship repaired, so that it could resume its journey. It was vaguely aware that many plans were afoot, and realized finally it would have to take some risks.

  One day, the two men came into the cave with drilling equipment. But the metal walls of the ship were impregnable to the diamond-hard cutting tools. During this visit, the robot realized that the smaller man was urging action against the others of the group, but that Peeley seemed to be resisting.

  The atomic-war crisis stimulated the smaller man to a final, decisive plan. Just what his scheme was, the robot could not determine. The plotter remained warily at a distance, out of thought reach.

  He shot Tannahill, intending to kill, intending that Peeley, as attorney for the estate, would control disposal of the property. His boundless ambition included domination of the world . . . But his was a face which Stephens had never seen. If he were still around, he must be wearing a mask.

  When the pictures finally ceased, Stephens spent a few minutes walking through the “hold” examining the ship’s cargo. According to the films—he assumed it was a film record he had been shown—the long, shielded shelves were loaded with tiny, gleaming capsules, each one of which contained a small amount of an artificial element in pure form.

  They were elements unknown on Earth, elements so far beyond Uranium on the periodic table that, if they had ever existed in nature, it must have been for a mere moment in the history of the universe.

  Stephens had no idea what he would do with them. They seemed to have no value in the present situation. It was even doubtful if he could find a buyer . . . unless he sold them to the group. It was a quarter of six when Stephens wearily re-entered the sub-basement of the Palms Building, and started up the steps. One thing was beginning to worry him: There was no indication of who Peeley’s murderous companion might be.

  It seemed vital that he be identified and exposed to the group.

  Stephens reached the main floor of the Palms Building, stood for a moment in the alcove behind the elevator, and started up toward his office. As he came to the halfway landing, and turned to climb the rest of the way, he saw a man’s legs move into view. Stephens’ hand flashed to his pocket. His fingers poised on the gun; and then slowly he brought his hand out again, empty.

  “Well,” he said, “Bill Riggs.”

  XV

  In Stephens’ office, Riggs began, “Well, Mr. Stephens, I’ve got the dope on Newton Tannahill’s burial. The undertaker was the Almirante Mortuary, then owned by a Norman Moxley, who bought the place a few months before the funeral and sold out immediately afterwards.”

  He paused, and Stephens nodded. This was drab information, compared to the heady stuff he had learned on the ship. And yet it was not less vital. Knowing the overall back history gave him a sharper picture of the situation; perhaps it even strengthened his ultimate bargaining position. But actually here in Almirante he was still concerned with the charge against Tannahill.

  He doubted that Moxley had left town. A mask had been donned and then discarded. It might be possible to find out what important citizens had been “out” of the city during the period of Moxley’s stay, and so by a process of elimination identify the member of the gang who played the role. But it would not be possible to prove that such a masquerade had, in fact, taken place.

  He realized that a comment was expected. He said aloud, “That sounds bad. The district attorney could use that against Mr. Tannahill.”

  “Well, it isn’t good,” Riggs admitted, “and the dope I got on the doctor is on the same lines. His name is Doctor Jaime de las Cienegas. He graduated from UCLA fifteen years ago, but never practiced till he settled in Almirante in December of last year. He sold his practice for a hundred dollars on May fifteenth last, and left town the next day. A slippery son of a gun, if you ask me.”

  Stephens was curious. “Where did you get this information?”

  “I started comparing the telephone book current at the time of the burial with the latest edition. Dr. de las Cienegas’ name was in the former, and not in the latter, and the Almirante Mortuary is now called the Benson Brothers Funeral Parlor. I called on them and learned some of the stuff I told you, and I learned that when they had bought the place the escrow work had been done by the local branch of the Bank of America. It was from the manager of the bank that I found out how much Moxley had paid for the place.

  “Both the Bensons and the bank manager describe Moxley as a tall Englishman, reserved, distinguished-looking, polite. And they had heard that he had a passion for gambling, but had no direct knowledge about that. They judged him to be about forty years old.”

  “And what about the doctor?” Stephens asked, wondering how he could use the information against Peeley.

  “I found out about him from the secretary of the local branch of the medical association. He was quite a friendly duck, I understand, rather sardonic in his outlook, but apparently well liked by the other doctors. His hobby was poisons. He had a terrific library on the subject, but since poisons didn’t enter this case I didn’t push that angle.”

  He paused and looked questioningly at Stephens. His eyes were narrowed ever so slightly, and Stephens had the impression that the detective was watching his reactions closely, and that the man knew more than he was telling.

  He was not so sure that poisons were not involved in the case. Certainly these people used drugs for specific purposes like producing amnesia. It could be something to go into, but later.

  Now, he saw sharply that his side of this meeting had been suspiciously unrevealing, and that Riggs might legitimately speculate on why Allison Stephens was wandering around in the early morning hours. Some explanation was needed. Besides, it might be well to make the detective his confidant to some extent.

  “Mr. Riggs,” he began, “Mr. Tannahill and I had pretty well come to the conclusion that a large group was operating this affair, and that a great deal of money was involved. My own investigations seem to prove that the situation is very complex indeed.”

  He described what Howland had said about Mistra’s income, and mentioned again the letter that Tannahill had been compelled to sign. He did not describe Mistra as the source of his information, but gave it as his opinion that the members of the group were now financially dependent on the Tannahill estate. He told of the cave, but he gave a false account of having stumbled upon it.

  He did not mention the ship, immortality, cults, masks, or how he had originally run into the group. He finished, “Your problem and mine, Mr. Riggs, is very difficult. In one sense we should try to bring this group into the light of day, but would it do our employer any good? We must be careful and not make any more enemies for Mr. Tannahill than he already has. It’s possible that we’ll have to find the real murderer.”

  Riggs nodded, and seemed lost in thought. “This cave,” he said finally, “do you think it has any bearing on the case?”

  Stephens hesitated; then: “I doubt it!” he lied.

  “Then let’s forget it.” Riggs went on, earnestly, “I tell you, Mr. Stephens, these references to amnesia, secret caves, and gangs scare me. I think we’d be advised not to bring stuff like that into the open.” He broke off, “And now, I might as well be honest and admit I’ve been following you most of the day."

  “Following me!” echoed Stephens. His feeling of blankness yielded to anxiety. Swiftly, he went back in his mind over the events of the night. Except for the cave incident he had done nothing that Riggs couldn’t know about and there was no sign that he knew anything about that. Relieved, Stephens said, “That puzzles me.”

  Riggs went on: “How did I know you weren’t in this thing against the guy that hired me? I figured I’d better check on you. It got a little monotonous in the graveyard, all four of us sitting around doing nothing.”

  That pulled Stephens out of his calm. He half-rose from his chair, then slowly settled back again. “Four?” he said at last.

  “I don’t know whether you’r
e going to like this,” said Riggs, “but he’d been waiting there for a couple of hours for you to go—”

  “Who had?”

  “Tannahill.” Riggs paused, then went on, “I got the impression that he and the girl had talked to each other earlier. Anyway, when you finally left, he went over to her. He said something about making sure that she’d meant what she’d said. And she said, ‘Yes, I’ll marry you.’ ” Riggs paused. “Then he got into the car, and they drove off to Las Vegas.”

  He stopped; and his blue eyes were sympathetic, as he went on, “I can see that hits you hard. Sorry!”

  Stephens grew slowly aware that he was hunched up in his chair, and that his face muscles were taut, his teeth clenched, his eyes hurting. He swallowed half a dozen times in rapid succession, and each time it hurt his throat more. With an effort he repressed his emotion, and said stiffly, “What happened then?”

  “You came back, and I followed you all over town. When you got to the Palms Building, you went in and locked the door after you. I spent two hours getting in through a third story window, and then we met in the corridor. That’s the picture.”

  Stephens nodded, and said finally, “I think we’d both better get some sleep.”

  There were innumerable things to do. Arrange for bail if needed. Details of defense. Preparation of legal papers. That would be his open activity. The rest concerned his preparations for approaching the group. He had to be in the strongest possible position.

  As he bade Riggs good night, he was thinking that what Mistra had done followed inexorably from his refusal. Failing to obtain his help, she had taken a more determined step. He remembered her saying—her last words—that saving Earth was more important than their love.

  She had Tannahill. She could threaten the group through him.

  Wearily, Stephens stretched out on the cot in the rest room that led off from the clerical section of his office.

  He had still not slept when Miss Chainer arrived at eight-thirty. He went down to the barbershop in the building next door, had a shave, and then went across the street for breakfast. He was heading back to his office, when he saw an assay office sign half a block away. It was not the first time he had noticed it, but he had never before thought of it in relation to himself.

  Involuntarily, his fingers sought in his coat pocket for the bits of marble he had taken from the Grand House steps: He entered the shop and handed the chips to the man behind the counter. He asked, “How soon can you give me as analysis of these?”

  The assayer was a lean, oldish man who wore gold-rimmed glasses. He countered Stephens’ question with one of his own: “How soon do you want it?” He mumbled something about the holidays.

  Stephens cut him off: “Look, I’ll pay you double if I can have it tomorrow morning.”

  Briskly, the man gave him a receipt. “About ten,” he said.

  As Stephens emerged from the shop, a newsboy was shouting: “Read all about the Lorillian attack!”

  XVI

  Stephens bought a paper with fingers that shook. The headline in full was: LORILLIA ACCUSES U.S. OF ATTACK.

  Below that, in smaller caps, was: AMBASSADOR HANDS PROTEST NOTE TO STATE DEPARTMENT.

  The story began: “The United States Government categorically denied today that U.S. warplanes attacked factories and installations in Lorillia at noon (Lorillian time) today. Secretary of State Walter Blake has announced the government’s rejection of the protest—”

  Stephens’ eyes were already skipping, seeking for information more substantial than protests and accusations. He came to a paragraph that read:

  “Diplomatic observers were puzzled by the Lorillian accusation, few giving any credence to the account. However, from Antulla has come a report that inter-plane radio messages were picked up at the capitol, in which Lorillian pilots reported to their bases that they were unable to continue pursuit of the enemy ships, which had apparently escaped by climbing out of their reach. From claims and counter-claims of various pilots, Antulla observers conclude that some damage was inflicted on the attackers, though there is no evidence that any was shot down—”

  Stephens kept swallowing as he read the account. He pictured the scene, Mistra coming down through a veritable hell of guided missiles, anti-aircraft rockets, and high explosive shells. The newspaper account was evidence that she had persisted in the face of the heaviest fire. She had risked her immortal body—for what? For a world that would possibly never know that it had been in danger.

  There seemed no doubt but that a number of ships had participated in the attack, but that hardly mattered. The group had capitulated out of fear. Confronted with a deadly threat against Tannahill, alarmed by the possible complications, they had helped her carry out her plan.

  It was a major change of policy. The Grand House would stay where it was. The group would remain on Earth. Unless the baffled and angry Lorillians forced issues there would be no war.

  Just before noon, Stephens called the district attorney’s office, and after a moment’s delay got through to Howland, who said coldly, “You realize that Mr. Tannahill’s departure is evidence of guilt? This proves I was right to issue a warrant for his arrest, Stephens.”

  Stephens, wary of recording devices, expressed astonishment at such a statement. “After all,” he said very distinctly, “a man who does not even know he is to be arrested can hardly be accused of running away.”

  “Now, look here, Stephens—” Howland began.

  “It is possible,” lied Stephens, “that Mr. Tannahill has gone to San Francisco for New Year’s Eve. He mentioned to me that he was anxious for a little excitement. As soon as I hear from him, I’ll advise him of your action. Meanwhile, I am making application for bail to Judge Adams, and will ask for an early hearing.”

  On the way back to his office after lunch, he turned in at the Downtown Bookstore. He said to the clerk, “Have you anything on the subject of longevity?” The man said, “Oh, you mean books on Geriatrics.”

  Stephens supposed so, though it was a new word to him.

  He followed the man along a line of shelves, watched him examine a row of titles.

  “Ah!” the clerk brought out a thin volume. “ ‘The Prolongation of Life’ by the Russian, Bogomolets. He tells you to eat Bulgarian yogurt, which contains bacteria that destroy toxic bacteria in your intestines. I take it all the time, myself; but it’s too soon to tell if it’s going to do the job.” He laughed.

  The clerk went on, “Now, over here we have the pamphlet, ‘Live Long and Like It,’ put out by the Public Affairs Committee in New York. Their idea is, periodic physical examinations. If anything is wrong anywhere, spare no expense till it’s fixed up. You’re as young as your oldest organ; that’s the idea. What’s the good of having a forty-year-old heart and a ninety-year-old liver?”

  Stephens examined the pamphlet, and finally nodded his acceptance of it. He said hesitantly, “Anything on—” he stumbled over the word— “de-differentiation?”

  He explained, and the clerk shook his head, but finally said doubtfully, “We’ve got a book that deals with chameleons—fascinating.”

  Stephens bought that as well as the pamphlet and the Bogomolets volume. He returned to his office, conscious for the first time of how tremendous was the pressure that was driving him.

  Stephens sat down at his desk, and thought: In all Almirante there was only one man who had enough legal power—and some motivation—to take action against the group: Frank Howland. Howland could arrest, appeal adverse decisions to higher courts, command public attention, and obtain search warrants. The problem would be to give Howland enough information to stimulate him, but not enough to enable him to guess the truth.

  Frank Howland . . . partner. Stephens laughed without amusement, and thought: “I’ll call him tomorrow.”

  He picked up the phone, dialed the airport, and chartered a plane to take him to Los Angeles at midnight that night.

  He went out and bought a spade and a pickaxe
, and put them in his car. Tonight he must check on the one aspect of this affair of which he had no definite proof. These people might be immortal, but he had only somebody’s word for that.

  Back in his office, he took out his notebook, and wrote: “Assuming all that I’ve learned is true, what remains to be investigated?”

  Plenty, but surprisingly little that he could approach directly. The death of Jenkins and the Negro caretaker had still to be explained, as well as who had written the note to Howland. Peeley’s role as co-conspirator with the unidentified Indian remained obscure.

  What was the plan the two were working on? Why had the smaller man secretly opposed the move away from Earth, to the extent of trying to murder Tannahill when the latter agreed to move the Grand House? And how did he hope to use Allison Stephens to force the robot brain to capitulate?

  His own problem, Stephens decided finally, narrowed down to one overall question:

  How could he use the information he had to trap the murderer, frustrate the group, and gain the Grand House for himself, Mistra—and the rest of the world?

  He glanced at his watch. It was five to four. At least five hours to go before he could do anything decisive.

  He visited the morgue which, in Almirante, was attached to a funeral parlor. He verified that Ford had died from a bullet wound; Jenkins had been stabbed. “Funny thing about that knife wound,” said the attendant. “You’d have thought he was killed by a red-hot knife. The wound was all blistered.”

  Needle beam!

  Stephens felt an icy thrill. He spent the rest of the afternoon and part of the evening checking the addresses he had gotten from the account book at the Mexican Import Company. The group of names that emerged represented a good part of the economic power of that part of the state.

  More than ever, he felt the handicap of one ordinary man pitting himself against so much intrenched power.

  He had dinner, and then shortly before nine drove home and put on an old pair of trousers, a heavy shirt and a sweater. The night was cloud-filled, which made it easy to drive into the cemetery, and to the Tannahill plot. He sat for minutes, waiting for a sign that he had been seen. But the silence rivaled that of the night before. Grave opening was evidently not considered a sufficient hazard by the local police to take precautions against it.