The House that Stood Still Page 9

  It was dull in color, and he remembered that he had thought it was rock. He strode a hundred yards to where the metal curved away and the cave ended in a blank wall.

  Several times, coming back to his starting point, Stephens pushed against the metal, but its somewhat pockmarked surface did not yield. He walked about a hundred and fifty yards past the cross tunnel, and then came to the end of the metal and the tunnel in that direction also.

  Once more, he returned to his starting point, and walked back toward what he regarded as the main tunnel. When he reached it, he followed it downward till he came suddenly to a metal wall that spread across the full width of the cave. He pushed at it, convinced that there must be a way through, and that on such a narrow front he might find it. But it was not till he tried sliding it that a section glided smoothly out of position, tilted out toward him, and then rolled noiselessly to the left, revealing a wide opening.

  He walked forward—into the sub-basement of the Palms Building.

  For several moments, Stephens stood listening. Then he switched on the electric light and shut off the lamp. He examined it briefly, using the one button to light it and turn it off alternately. Satisfied, finally, that its operation was simple enough, he carried it back into the tunnel, and set it down on the dirt floor.

  Quickly now, he slid shut the metal door, and noticed that on the inside it was smeared with concrete so that it matched perfectly the concrete base of the budding. He opened and shut it several times, and then he headed up to the Mexican Import office.

  Everything was as he had left it. The door stood open. The light was on. The clay figure lay on its side.

  XI

  It was nearly one o’clock when Stephens set out to look for Tannahill.

  He found the heir and a large crowd of happy young people in a night club called Drink Haven. A waiter thrust a glass into Stephens’ hand. “It’s all right,” he said cheerfully. “It’s on the Tannahill millions.” The great, dim room murmured with pleasure. As Stephens pushed slowly nearer Tannahill, who sat in a booth opposite the door, he heard snatches of conversation: “. . . Do you know, the bill over at—” Stephens didn’t get the name of the bar— “was eight hundred and ninety-six dollars . . .” “. . . Somebody told me he gave the waiters fifty dollars apiece . . .” “. . . They say the Tannahills used to give week-long festivals . . . I sure hope that comes back . . .” Somebody jostled Stephens. He looked around. It was Riggs, who said, “Just thought I’d let you know I’m around. Be seeing you.” He moved off.

  Stephens tagged along behind Tannahill to the next bar. The manager met them at the door, and it was obvious that he had had advance notice. In a clear voice, he introduced Tannahill to the largest and most packed lounge Stephens had seen in a long time. After the introduction, there were at least a dozen successful attempts by young women to kiss Tannahill.

  Tannahill seemed to enjoy it. Stephens, in the background, could hardly blame him. A man who had been in a hospital for so long must have plenty of steam to blow off. He decided to make no attempt to get near his client, but to go along with the party until he grew tired.

  He was on the point of going home about an hour later, when a woman with jet black hair and a full though not unpretty face squeezed into the booth beside him. She was small, and she wore a flaming red dress. A huge ruby hung from each of her ears. Her fingers glittered with diamond-like and emerald-like rings. There were jeweled ornaments pinned to her dress. She said:

  “Mr. Tannahill sent me over, and wants you to make the final arrangements.”

  Stephens blinked at her. She laughed a trilling laugh.

  “I have seen the house,” she said, “and I will need three girls at least, to begin with. We will have to find some place outside the house for them to sleep. But I will sleep inside. Is that satisfactory?”

  Housekeeper! The slight haze of liquor cleared from Stephens’ brain. This was the woman mentioned by the placement service man. He remembered how anxious Tannahill was to get servants.

  “If Mr. Tannahill approves,” he said, “you’re liked. When can you start?”

  “Mr. Tannahill wants me to start tomorrow morning, but I can’t make it until the day after. That will have to do.” She spoke very firmly.

  “You mean the 29th?”

  “Mr. Tannahill offered me a hundred dollar bonus if I would start tomorrow, and fifty if I started on the 29th.” She laughed gaily. “I will take the fifty.”

  It was two o’clock when he learned that her name was Gico.

  Gico Aine.

  It took Stephens a little while to recall where he had seen the name before: In Tanequila the Bold, there had been a paragraph which, as he recalled it, had stated: “Alonzo was the unlucky one. His mistress, an Indian woman named Gico Aine, stabbed him to death.”

  Stephens was still thinking of the implications when he got home about four. So the gang was trying to get back into the Grand House, one way or another.

  He undressed sleepily in the living room, and entered his bedroom without turning on the lights. As he crept under the sheets, his shoulder and arm came into contact with a warm, nude body.

  “Don’t be alarmed,” said Mistra Lanett’s voice.

  “Holy smoke!” said Stephens.

  “You’re glad I’m here, aren’t you?” she said. For the first time since he had known her she sounded on the defensive.

  He had to admit that he was. He drew her willing body into his arms, and then he remembered something. “What debt are you paying this time?” he asked.

  “Stop that,” she said. “You’re the only man I’ve got, and I’m quite satisfied with you. I’m sorry to tell you it’s only temporary, so enjoy me while you can.” She laughed softly. “Perhaps I’m building up a little credit.”

  His fatigue was as completely gone as if it had never been. He felt alive and excited, thrilled that she had come to him again, and delighted with her body’s total acceptance of his embrace. Whatever her reason for having him as a lover, it was already clear that he had gotten hold of a woman of superior intelligence who understood, and was willing to satisfy, a man’s strong sex drive. Very possibly, he was garnering the benefits of her enforced alienation from the group to which she belonged. He guessed vaguely that Cahunja had been her lover. Something she had said that first night—

  A pang of jealousy went through him. He fought it off, and presently forgot her past in his intent concentration on the love act of the present. When it was finally done, she lay silent in the darkness, and then she said, “There used to be a derogatory saying that a man and a woman who only had sexual attraction for each other couldn’t possibly be happy. Right now, I am prepared to challenge that statement.”

  Stephens was too exhausted suddenly for conversation. “Forgive me,” he muttered, “but I can’t stay awake another moment.” He rolled over. He must have fallen asleep instantly.

  It was broad daylight when Stephens woke to the sound of dishes rattling in the kitchen. He blinked, momentarily had the illusion that it was his housekeeper; and then he remembered and glanced at the other side of his bed. He was alone, so she must be up. He put on his dressing gown, and went out into the kitchen.

  Mistra was standing on a footstool before an open cupboard door. She glanced around and looked at him calmly. “I’m making breakfast,” she said.

  The sound of her voice made his pulses leap. It was almost as if the night was unreal, and this was their first meeting since the strange visit to her apartment. For a few seconds he trembled with excitement. And then he had control of himself again.

  He eyed her warily. This woman had more power over him than he cared to think about, since from her viewpoint their relation was probably intended to be no more than a casual one. He walked slowly forward. He said:

  “Last night, I got involved so quickly it didn’t occur to me that this is a quick reappearance of a young lady who said that she might perhaps see me again. What have you in mind?”

&nbs
p; She was reaching up to the top shelf. While he watched, she brought down some dishes, and then turned toward him, a faint, teasing smile on her face. “What’s the matter? I thought you were happy to see me, or did I get the wrong impression last night?”

  Her nearness tantalized him outrageously. He stepped forward and caught her in his arms. He could feel her yielding body against the thin flannel of his pajamas. Her lips accepted his, but did not return the pressure he gave them. Presently, he released her.

  She said, “I really think we ought to have breakfast before we get into bed again.”

  Stephens was slightly nettled. “I don’t have to have sex every time I turn around,” he said.

  “But it’s fun,” she said. “Don’t worry. You can have me as often as you wish, so long as we’re together.”

  No answer could have been more satisfactory. His irritation was gone instantly. He said, “You were able to leave the Waldorf Arms without trouble?”

  She nodded. “I took the ship up about a hundred miles and came down in a lifeboat.”

  It was an unexpected reply.

  “You have spaceships?” he said.

  Mistra was setting the table. “You were in one.” She spoke without looking at him.

  Once more, her words reached too far for him to follow quickly. He stared at her, feeling irritated; and yet his mind worked furiously trying to fit her statement in with what he knew. Her apartment was unusually constructed; the building itself, with its dome, was an odd structure. It was a fantastic thought, but no more so than the ones he had already accepted.

  “What does it do?” he asked finally. “Does the dome slide open on a foggy night, and you and your ship soar up into the darkness?” His tone was facetious.

  “Strangely enough,” said Mistra, “that’s a very accurate statement of how it works.” She broke off. “But right now I want to get dressed. We can talk while we eat. It’s very urgent.”

  Stephens shaved and dressed and felt inner conflict. It was only as he sat down to a breakfast of French toast, bacon and coffee that his tensions began to relax. Bright-eyed, he looked at Mistra Lanett. Her eyes were serenely green; her hair done up rather primly; her face—

  There he paused, remembering the mask he had found in her purse. The fact that she had carried a different “face” with her seemed to suggest that, as Mistra Lanett, she was herself. He saw that she was watching him, her cheeks crinkled into a smile. It seemed unlikely that a mask could be so sensitive to every changing expression.

  He said curiously, “What is the secret of immortality?”

  Mistra shrugged. “The Grand House.”

  Stephens persisted, “But how does it affect the body?”

  “The skin cells de-differentiate,” she said.

  Stephens echoed the unusual word, and then looked at her questioningly.

  She explained: “The skin cells actually return to their youth. It affects the whole body, organs, everything. Well—” she hesitated—“almost to their youth. We do age, very slowly.”

  Stephens shook his head. “How do you mean, return to their youth? What about the rest of the body?”

  Her tone was suddenly indifferent. “The secret of youth is in the skin. Keep the skin young, and time is conquered.”

  “You mean, all these cosmeticians with their emphasis on beauty of the skin have actually got something?”

  She shrugged. “Any beneficial treatment of the skin is good. But the process of de-differentiation is more fundamental than the surface care you can give yourself. You’ve heard of these life-forms than can grow new arms or legs. That’s de-differentiation, and it’s the skin that does it.” She broke off, said, “I can tell you more about that some other day. Right now I’m pressed for time. I need a lawyer.”

  Her expression was suddenly earnest, her eyes narrowed. She leaned toward him. “Mr. Howland called me yesterday afternoon. He wants me to come to his office before noon today for an interview as a witness in the murder of John Ford, the caretaker of the Grand House. I ought to have a lawyer to come with me.”

  Her explanation struck a chord of excitement in Stephens. Sharper than before, he pictured the predicament of those people. First, the group as a whole frustrated by the fact of Tannahill’s ownership of the house. Now, Mistra compelled to tell her story—some story, anyway—to a representative of the law. Theoretically, of course, she could escape by putting on a mask and assuming a new identity. But that could have other legal repercussions; any transaction that involved transferring property or money from one individual to another sooner or later came under the scrutiny of a government official, even if it was only the tax collector. Surely, a lawyer could gain an advantage somewhere in all this!

  Mistra said, “Will you represent me?”

  Stephens emerged from his reverie, and said, “Why—I guess so. But wait!”

  He sat frowning. As the local agent of the estate, could he agree to represent anybody connected with the case without consulting Tannahill? He said, temporizing, “Just where do you fit into the murder?” He added, quickly, “I know some of these things vaguely, but tell me from the beginning.”

  “I was secretary of the late Newton Tannahill, and I was up at the house until a few weeks ago when I quit for personal reasons. That’s the gist of it.”

  “Was that the last time you saw John Ford?”

  “I saw him once on the street about a week ago.”

  “I see,” said Stephens. He nodded decisively. “I’ll surrender you for questioning,” he said, “but I don’t guarantee to represent you if there is a trial. It might not be ethical for me. We’ll have to figure out a detailed story, of course, that you can tell Howland and—” sardonically — “in view of your background, it had better be plausible.”

  Mistra said, “I’ll tell you about myself.”

  Stephens listened with absorption. The account began five years before when she had entered Newton Tannahill’s employ. She recounted the nature of her duties. She. had been hired to catalogue and arrange her employer’s art collection, but later her work became more general until finally, during his frequent absences, she was in complete charge of the house and its immediate grounds.

  A major omission in her story was her failure to explain how she, who had needed a job a few years before, now wore mink coats and drove big cars. Nor did she give any clear reason why she had resigned her position suddenly two weeks earlier. They were questions which Howland would be sure to ask.

  Stephens asked them also.

  “My money!” Mistra said, as if it was a new thought. “Oh, I made investments on Mr. Tannahill’s advice. He was an astute speculator.”

  “And why did you quit the job when you did?”

  “I had stayed on because of loyalty to Mr. Newton Tannahill,” she said. “Naturally, that obligation wouldn’t apply to his heir.” Her expression was bland.

  Stephens thought for a moment, then nodded. “Sounds all right,” he said. “Are you sure there’s nothing that could backfire on you?”

  She hesitated, then shook her head. “Nothing that Howland could find out about.”

  Stephens said, “I’ll call the district attorney, and maybe I can get a postponement.”

  “I’ll wash the dishes,” said Mistra.

  Stephens watched her for a minute as she briskly cleared the table. He liked the coziness of the scene. On impulse, he grabbed at her arm as she passed him. She evaded him. “You make that call,” she said in a mock-severe tone.

  Stephens laughed good-humoredly, stood up, and presently was dialing Howland’s number. The secretary put him through at once and it was quickly clear that the district attorney would not consider a delay.

  “I’ve got to have her down here this morning. I’m not fooling, Stephens.”

  Stephens said slowly, “Aren’t you being a little highhanded? After all, the lady is available at any time.”

  Howland spoke curtly, “If she isn’t here by noon today, I’ll have to iss
ue a warrant for her, Stephens.”

  Stephens did not try to hide his amazement “I protest such sharp treatment But if you insist we’ll come.”

  “I insist,” Howland said. “But now, if you don’t mind, I’m going to ask you a question.” His voice changed, grew more suave, more confidential. “About the murder of John Ford, Stephens.”

  “Yes?” Stephens waited expectantly.

  “Is Miss Lanett your only connection with the case?”

  Oh, no you don’t, Stephens thought. You’re not going to get an admission out of me that we’ve even thought of such a thing. Aloud, he said. “What are you getting at?”

  “Nobody else has approached you?”

  Stephens said, “Not yet. Have you been recommending me?”

  That brought amused laughter. “Well, hardly.” The laughter ended. “Seriously, Stephens, somebody’s going to be executed for killing that nigger, and it looks like big game. I have reason to believe the murderer has taken alarm, and I thought he might have hired himself a lawyer.”

  Stephens said stiffly, “Then you know who it is, do you?”

  “Well, yes, I suppose we do. The problem is to get the evidence and a motive, and then of course there are other angles about which I will say nothing. But now, look, Stephens—” patronizingly— “you bring that dame in this morning, and everything’ll be okay. Goodbye.”

  Stephens hung up the receiver, started immediately to dial the number of the Grand House, and then put the phone back on its cradle.

  Wait, he thought, till after the interview. I’ll have something to tell him then.

  Mistra came in as he reached that conclusion and said cheerfully: “Well take my car. I’ll be your chauffeur today, wherever you want to go.”

  Her car was a new Cadillac convertible with a gleaming chartreuse paint job. Stephens looked at its brilliant exterior, and climbed in beside her. He watched her profile as she backed to the highway, and he wondered again: A secretary five years ago—now this! It would be hard to explain.