The House that Stood Still Read online

  Stephens hesitated, half-minded to ask if he were talking to Mrs. Howland. And, if so, if she had noticed anything unusual about her husband the past few days. He decided against it, hung up, and returned slowly to the dinner table. Howland being unreachable was not conclusive proof that his theory was correct, but he had to assume that it was.

  “I could show him Tannahill’s letter, firing me,” he thought tentatively. “That might convince him that it wouldn’t do any good to kill me; he wouldn’t be able to make use of the local agency, which is surely what he had mind.”

  He was still considering bringing out the letter, when Peeley said, “My idea is that we go to your house as soon as we’ve eaten, and you can give me a picture of the entire local situation.”

  Stephens visualized himself alone in a remote suburban home with Walter Peeley, and that was enough. Promptly, he produced Tannahill’s letter.

  Peeley read it, and handed it back without immediate comment. He seemed very thoughtful on the drive to the bungalow.

  After Stephens had served whiskey and soda, Peeley asked to see the letter again. He read it slowly, and finally said, “How did you get him down on you?”

  “I haven’t the faintest idea. I’m hoping to get back in his good graces tonight.”

  “Then you intend to carry through with your plan?”

  “I couldn’t stop it now,” lied Stephens. “Having made the arrangements with Howland, I’m committed.”

  The fact that the man before him probably had the mask of Frank Howland’s face in his pocket, ready to don it at a moment’s notice, wouldn’t necessarily change anything.

  He spent the next hour talking about the estate. Peeley seemed to listen with interest, a reaction that was hard to evaluate. It might just mean that he was getting information from a man who had been separated from the organization.

  At a quarter of nine, the phone rang. The sound of it made Stephens jump. He picked up the receiver with a hand that shook slightly. He said, “Allison Stephens talking.”

  “Mr. Stephens,” said the man’s voice at the other end, this is the fingerprint bureau at the police department. We’ve got the fingerprint identification you asked us about.”

  “Yes?” Stephens held his voice calm, but his heart gave a leap.

  He hung up presently, feeling blank. And then, slowly, he braced himself. There was nothing to do but carry on as he had planned. He would begin by indicting Walter Peeley. Then would come what, for the others would be an unexpected climax. And then—

  He shook his head uneasily. The anti-climax was as vague, and seemed as deadly, as ever.

  XX

  As Stephens parked his car, he saw that Mistra’s machine was there. At least it looked like hers. Several other long cars were also drawn up.

  He followed Peeley up the steps, noticing how brightly lighted the house was. Their ring was answered by Gico Aine, looking oddly different and distinguished without her jewels. She led them silently into the living room where eleven people—Stephens counted them—were sitting or standing. He recognized Judge Adams, Judge Porter, Carewell and Grant, Tannahill and Mistra. The two other women and the three other men were strangers to him.

  It was Tannahill who came forward, a faint, ironic smile on his face. He did not offer his hand. “You’re Stephens?” he said. It was almost as if he wasn’t sure.

  Stephens nodded curtly, and then turned to face the group. He was anxious to get started. He had purposely timed his arrival ahead of Howland (by forty minutes) so that he could make his initial accusations, and, if possible, gain the group’s approval.

  He opened his brief case, took out some papers, and then once more looked around him. He wondered which of the women was the mind reader. Not that he was worried about what thoughts she might detect. He doubted if she could untangle the complexity of plans he had set in motion, some serious, and others little more than red herrings. He hoped that she would notice that he merely wanted to put the group under pressure, and that the main danger was not from him.

  He began solemnly by saying, “My first concern, naturally, was to serve Mr. Tannahill.”

  From the corner of his eyes, he saw that the remark brought a grim smile to Tannahill’s face. Stephens went on, “To that end I have prepared a case which, I think you will agree, will effectively convince the public that Mr. Tannahill is not and never had been guilty of the crime with which he was charged.”

  He was aware that Mistra, sitting at the far end of the living room, was looking at him as if she wanted to catch his eye. But he kept his gaze on the men who were gathered in a group near the front of the room.

  He made his case against Peeley, simply, straightforwardly, forcefully. And every word he spoke brought realization of how strong the evidence he had would sound in an average courtroom. The secret visits to Almirante, the connection with the gang and the payments of huge sums of money from the Tannahill estate to many people without authorization.

  What of course would be finally convincing was the fact that, after—at most—a preliminary hearing, Peeley would disappear forever from the scene. And his “flight” would be regarded as an admission of guilt.

  Several times, as he made his points, Stephens glanced at Peeley. The man sat frowning at the floor, and, twice, as Stephens watched, he shifted in his chair.

  The case that Stephens made had nothing to do with immortality, spaceships or atomic war. It was mundane, being primarily concerned with fitting together the surface facts. (“Newton Tannahill was murdered because he discovered that his property was being milked of vast sums of money.”) Stephens described such provable facts as the disappearance of the doctor and the undertaker. (“The nephew was buried in the uncle’s grave. Why? Because the uncle’s body must have been badly damaged when he was murdered.”)

  The reason for the murder of John Ford was equally simple as Stephens analyzed it with his deliberately superficial logic. (“He was an incident. He was killed to put pressure on Arthur Tannahill, to force him to sign a letter authorizing continuation of the money payments from the estate.”)

  Jenkins? (“He saw Peeley that first night, and was murdered to prevent his ever telling anybody that Peeley had been in town.”)

  Stephens finished his charge by saying: “It was not my intention to explain the motives which prompted Mr. Peeley to pay out so much wealth that did not belong to him to the parties involved. But I think now that I am justified in pointing out that we must not underestimate the psychological meaning of the Mayan or Aztec cult—I never did distinguish between the two in my own mind—to which he belongs. We have here what might be called cult loyalty . . . Ladies and gentlemen, that concludes my case against Walter Peeley.”

  He looked directly at Mistra for the first time. Her eyes met his coolly, but she seemed puzzled, also. Stephens smiled tautly, walked to a chair near the hall door, and sat down.

  XXI

  The room was almost unchanged. No one besides himself had moved, except for some tiny changes in posture. The two editors were writing in their notebooks. Tannahill sat on a couch, leaning forward; his face was buried in his hands, and he seemed to be laughing. Judge Porter, his smooth face bland, his tinted glasses a shield for any expression that might be in his eyes, stared sardonically at Peeley.

  “Well, Mr. Peeley,” he said, “what have you got to say for yourself?”

  At first Peeley said nothing. He sat in a deep chair, and his face was a study. He seemed indecisive. He glanced at Stephens, then as quickly glanced away again. Then he looked at the door that led to the hall. At last he sighed, and stared at Stephens.

  “So that’s what you’ve been rushing around about,” he said.

  He fell silent again. He seemed to realize that everybody was watching him now, for he laughed harshly, and took a cigarette out of his pocket, placed it nervously in his mouth.

  “I’d like to have your explanation again,” he said, “for my motive in committing these murders. I want to get it str
aight.”

  He listened, his head slightly cocked, as if he were trying to hear some subtler tone than was apparent in the surface of the words that Stephens spoke. When Stephens again described the letter that Tannahill had been asked to sign, the lawyer laughed once more, a harder, more determined laugh. He looked like a man who was stiffening to the tremendousness of his danger.

  “You damned fool!” he said. “You said yourself that I have a letter from Tannahill authorizing me to continue, do you understand?—to continue—the payments to these people. It is clear from that letter that Tannahill knew the reason for the payments being made, which is more than I do.”

  “You have this letter,” said Stephens gently, “on you?”

  His tone had an effect. Until that instant, Peeley must have thought that this was a move to undermine the strength of the letter. Now, a startled look flashed into his face. His eyes widened. “Why, you scoundrel,” he said. “You’ve been to the office in Los Angeles.”

  “I’m sure,” said Stephens quietly, “you realize that no melodramatic attempt to put over the idea that such a letter ever existed will be particularly convincing to those present.”

  Peeley sat down. Amazingly, he seemed to have full control of himself. He looked at Stephens calmly.

  Then his gaze turned towards the others. Judge Porter wiped his eyes, and frowned at Peeley. “You’re taking this very hard,” the Judge said. “I can see you’re envisaging the possibility that it might be wise if you did bear the brunt of this. After all, we can’t have the owner of the house under a cloud. Also, it would effectively dispose of a very curious fear we’ve had in connection with you the past few days.” He glanced at the two newspaper publishers. “What do you think, gentlemen?”

  Carewell, a long, gaunt man, who had been whispering to Grant, climbed to his feet “My morning extra,” he said, “will contain a complete exoneration of Mr. Tannahill. The Tannahill family,” he intoned, “has for generations been the backbone of Almirante. This newspaper, which also has a long and honorable tradition in the city will not lightly drag down a family so thoroughly American and Californian. In a world beset by uncertainties, almost destroyed by immoral upstarts and creatures without principle, we must turn more and more to people who have roots in the soil of their land, and not to nameless drifters.”

  He paused. “So much,” he said, “for the murder charge.” He looked at Mistra. “This is all very ordinary. Your young man is showing good average sense but very little imagination.”

  Mistra stood up, and beckoned Stephens. He came over, and let himself be led into a corner. She said in a low tone: “Is this the great revelation? I thought you told me Peeley was not the man.”

  Stephens said angrily: “Where’s that damned mind reader? Can you bring her over? I want to talk to her.”

  Mistra looked at him for a long moment. Without another word, she hurried out of the room. She came back accompanied by a sharp-eyed, pleasant-looking girl. At least, she seemed like a girl till she came up, and Stephens saw that her eyes, despite their sparkle of youth, were calm and wise.

  Mistra said, “This is Triselle.”

  Triselle grasped Stephens’ hand. Her expression was thoughtful. “I won’t anticipate your next climax.”

  “You know about it?”

  “It was apparent the moment he walked in. He wouldn’t have gotten away with it.”

  Stephens said anxiously, “What else do you know?”

  “I haven’t found your man. Your informant—” She hesitated— “I don’t know what I mean by that because I get a picture of darkness. Anyway, whoever told you must be mistaken. There is no one.”

  Stephens said curtly, “Let’s not start an argument now. You can or you cannot sense a danger threat.”

  “I cannot, except—” She paused.

  “Yes?”

  “Vaguely.”

  “From whom?”

  “I—don’t know!” She bit her lip as if in vexation. I’m sorry I can’t even give you a lead.”

  Stephens glanced helplessly at Mistra, who shook her head. “I have only a faint idea what you two are talking about. But then, I generally have that feeling when Triselle is conversing with someone.”

  Stephens was silent. Triselle was turning out to be a better mind reader than he had anticipated. Whoever was fooling her had evidently over the years acquired an enormous skill at concealing his thoughts. He faced the woman again. But she was already shaking her head.

  “They all attempted it,” she said. “They spent hours talking to me, trying first one method of concealment, then another. Occasionally I had the feeling that they were succeeding, but obviously, I couldn't be sure.”

  Stephens nodded. “Their very success would bar you from knowing if the thought had ever occurred at all.” He broke off: “Who, particularly, gave you the feeling that they were concealing—”

  The woman sighed. “I see you didn’t understand me. All of them succeeded at one time or another. I realize now that even you got away with a vital piece of information that night we visited you.”

  At the far end of the room, Peeley was climbing to his feet. “Well, gentlemen, as I see it, it is necessary for me to disappear and bear the brunt of the search for the murderer. I accept the role.”

  Stephens walked rapidly into the center of the room. “Sit down, Mr. Peeley,” he said politely. “I have a few more remarks to make about you.”

  He didn't wait for a reply, but turning to the group, described briefly his analysis of why Frank Howland and Allison Stephens had successively been chosen to be local representative of the estate. Stephens finished: “I’m going to make the prediction that, in walking out of here in order to ‘disappear,’ Mr. Peeley would shortly have walked back in as Mr. Howland.”

  He paused to look around; and saw that once again he had an impatient audience. It was amazing, but they still didn’t suspect the truth.

  Tannahill was staring sardonically at Peeley. “Up to your old tricks, eh?”

  Judge Porter said, “Walter, you really are incorrigible. But then, I’ve had ideas like that myself. I never could figure out, though, just how to work them.”

  Stephens said, “Mr. Howland and I worked out a little plan whereby everyone in this room would be arrested for carrying concealed weapons, and have their masks removed. That way they wouldn’t even be identified as prominent citizens, and so would be eliminated for a year or more, depending on the sentence meted out.”

  Judge Porter shook his head. “Doesn't sound like a very comprehensive plan. I'm surprised at you, Walter.”

  Stephens felt briefly baffled. They were too amoral, this group that had lived so long. Confronted by betrayal, their attitude seemed to be that it was to be expected that certain members would try to seize control of the Grand House.

  “Unfortunately,” he said at last, “another and more deadly disaster befell Mr. Peeley’s plan. Picture the scene: He killed John Ford, and wrote the note to Howland. Somewhere along the line he was seen by Jenkins, and had to shoot fast. Or at least he thought he did. He used a needle beam, which I assume he wouldn't have done except in an emergency. And then, with all that preparation behind him, he made a fateful error.”

  Stephens had come to the climax of his attack aware that Peeley was beginning to fidget. He was aware of it out of the corner of one eye, because the man was standing slightly behind and to one side of him.

  Peeley said: “I’m going to get out of here. This is too melodramatic for me.”

  “Before you go,” said Stephens, “take off that mask!”

  As he spoke, he snatched his Nambu, and pointed it. His move did not seem to disturb the others, for no weapons came out. But his words had a profound effect. Several men jumped to their feet. Tannahill, who had been standing, said sharply: “Mask!”

  Stephens waited till there was silence again, then gently: “Take it off, my friend. You acted in self-defense. You have my personal assurance that you’re going to get
away with it whether the group likes it or not.” He broke off. “Somebody help him with that thing. There must be a quick way of getting it off.”

  Triselle came forward. She had a bottle of colorless liquid. “Hold out your hands!” she said.

  Peeley hesitated, then shrugged, and let her pour about half the chemical into his cupped palms. His hands went up, then came down.

  Frank Howland stood before them.

  His face twisted into a scowl. His teeth showed as he said: “All right, so I’ll have to be careful about what I do against you. I killed Peeley in self-defense, but I can’t afford a murder charge.”

  Stephens frowned. The words did not show a sharp enough understanding of the situation. “Howland,” he said, “what do you know about the activities of—” He waved vaguely at the room—“these people?”

  Howland looked surprised. “But you told me that. A cult . . . Once I got involved”—He broke off curtly. “Never mind.”

  Stephens glanced around at the other people. Tannahill was staring stonily at the floor. Judge Porter watched Howland with what seemed a speculative expression. Mistra and the mind reader were talking together in low tones. Grimly, he realized that they shared his view. This man was not a threat.

  And still he was not satisfied. “Howland,” he said, “where did you get the mask of Peeley’s face?”

  There was a stir. All over the room people looked up.

  Howland hesitated. “It came in the mail,” he said. There was perspiration on his forehead. “The note along with it told me how to use it, reminded me of my acting career—that is, my ability to imitate voices—and suggested I use it. Or else the writer would tell the police where Peeley’s body was buried.”

  “What was supposed to be your reason for all this—if you were caught?”

  “I was to say that I was after money. Frankly . . .” Howland shrugged. “I couldn’t bring myself to that. But if pressed I was to tell the truth.”

  “After tonight, you’re in the clear—is that right?”