THE GRISLY HAND AND THE FLAME

Margot danced, with one man and then another, a rapt, detached, impersonal joy, shone in her face. Gone, between her and her guests, the feeling of inequality that her agile and probing mind, had inspired for a short interval. Gone the sense in her of repugnance for Stoner, even when she danced in his arms. Gone the memory of his strange and disturbing eyes. Caught up in the rhythm of jazz, what mattered anything but motion—to these children of the Twentieth Century—the poetry of motion, the only poetry most of them would ever give a brass farthing for.

What if the music were secondhand? Syncopation and the phonograph record had come into being at the same time, and had swept away with a single victorious gesture the sentiment of the waltz, and the coöperation of eager fingers flying over a white keyboard. Here were new measures, mechanical, but satisfying and inspiring to youngsters of the Jazz Age.

But it was after midnight, and high time to respect the rule that all noise cease at twelve o’clock. Even in free-and-easy old houses such as this one, there was a limit. Sandwiches and salad and coffee, appeared mysteriously from a closet, where Margot concealed an electric plate. One more round of drinks, mutual toasts and eager congratulations to Margot for the success of her party, then the girls began to fumble with their wraps.

At the door, Stoner held out his hand for a second clasp. He had already shaken her hand in good-night. He had managed to be the last to leave the room. Even Gene had followed the others down the stairs, although he had maneuvered a whispered entreaty into her ear, to permit him to return in a few minutes, and she had yielded to the unhappiness in his eyes.

Stoner, holding her hand, looked down at her with a slow smile parting his thick lips.

“Grand success, your little party—Margot.” She smiled, without attempting to withdraw her hand.

“Awfully glad you enjoyed it. Next time I promise to have the cocktails strong enough to suit you, Mr. Stoner.”

“They were strong enough. Too strong, maybe, for those other little girls. You’d already stirred them up thoroughly with your story of mystery and murder.”

Her eyes widened. “My story didn’t include a murder.”

“Well, it was hinted at—left to the imagination.”

“Entirely so.”

“Well, see here, little girl. Take my advice and cut out all that detective stuff. It fills your mind with truck and it’s bad for your work. Take it from me, it is!”

“I’ll write a mystery story myself, and perhaps you’ll let me star in it. How about that, Mr. Director?” She laughed and tried to withdraw her hand.

“Nothing doing. Don’t like mystery pictures. Well, good-by and don’t get nervous sleeping all alone in that big bed over there.”

For a second, Margot felt angry resentment at what, on the lips of such a man as Stoner, might so easily contain an ugly meaning—a raw suggestion. The next second, meeting his eyes, so mysteriously contradictory to the insidious sensuality of his mouth, she knew that he had meant nothing insulting by his reference to her sleeping alone in the large bed. Perhaps he had no meaning at all, back of his words or his eyes, but there it was again, unsuspected by him, that strange, disturbing filming of the pale blue iris, and the dilation of the pupil. What in Heaven’s name did it mean!

As Margot stood perfectly still, with the handle of the closed door in her hand, listening to the sound of Stoner’s feet descending the uncarpeted stairs, the vague wonder and unrest she had felt before, became a concrete sensation of something very much like fear, yet fear of what! Not Stoner himself. That would be too absurd! Besides, the only thing a woman would have to be on her guard against with Stoner, concerned matters wherein lay no mystery whatever. There was never any mystery for a woman, attending the manifest gloating desire of a man. Certainly she could handle Stoner. That wasn’t it. Well, what was it? She felt half tempted to talk it over with Gene. But hearing his step outside the door, she decided suddenly that she would not, could not, discuss Stoner with Gene.

Gene threw hat and coat on a chair in the manner of one who is anxious to dispose of superfluous incumbrance, and be strong for his swim against the current. He stood with his back to the wall, near the door, ignoring Margot’s gesture toward a chair. Reading determination in his grave, young face, Margot lighted a cigarette, just to have something to finger, and walked toward him, In comic imitation of Carmen, arms akimbo, swaying of the torso, head tilted back, and a tantalizing smile on her lips. It was too late for melodrama, or even mild dramatics. She must treat Gene with friendly levity, or she’d have a heavy discussion to deal with.

“Why so black in your looks, milord? You frighten me with your beetling brows and acid smile?”

“Smile! I’m far from smiling, Margot.”

She shrugged her shoulders. Gene in this mood had no more sense of humor than a clam.

“Don’t be so darn literal, my dear boy. Of course you’re not smiling. What I want to know is, why aren’t you?”

“Because I’m too miserable, that’s why, if you want to know.”

“Now see here, Gene. In plain language, what’s eating you? Haven’t I been sweet to you to-night? I danced with you more than with any other man, and I talked with you a lot.”

“It’s that man Stoner. I’m not exactly blind.”

“What is there not to be blind to?”

“He’s a loud-mouthed motion picture man of the old school. Out of your class a thousand miles. But he’s your director, and he’s got the gall to have fallen in love with you, and makes no bones about letting us all know it.”

“Rot! Tommy Rot! I suppose he admires me—in a way—but I’ve a hunch that his interest in me isn’t really as personal as it seems to be.”

Gene frowned at her. “Now what do you mean by that cryptic remark?”

Margot did not answer at once, then she said slowly:

“I don’t know myself exactly what I mean. But the main thing for you, Gene, to get into that otherwise intelligent head of yours is, that even if Stoner is in love with me, I’m not and never could be, in love with him.”

Gene looked neither convinced nor comforted.

“Men like Stoner aren’t easily discouraged. I’ve seen him go after women before. It’s just possible you might succumb to his cave-man technique in the end.”

“ ‘Technique’!” Margot laughed. “That’s funny. He hasn’t got any, that’s one reason why I’ve got no use for him. He’s awfully crude. Never lets me forget that he gave me my job. And speaking of technique, old dear, you’d better improve your own. It’s terribly flattering, of course, to have a man jealous of you, but it’s almost insulting to think that I could care for Stoner.”

Gene studied her morosely for a moment, then he turned away and walked the length of the room. Margot’s eyes, watching him, softened and she said gently:

“I forgive you, Gene.”

Quickly he turned on his heel and approached her, his hands outstretched. He seized hers and held them close.

“Jealousy is always stupid, dear, but when a man’s as much in love as I am, things get out of focus. I’m obsessed by a very human male desire to take care of you, Margot. To protect you against the world in general and men like Stoner in particular.”

Margot smiled into his eager face.

“But, my dear. I can look after myself at present, as well as you could look after me.”

He frowned and dropped her hands.

“I wasn’t speaking in terms of dollars and cents. I meant a different sort of protection, the kind marriage to a decent man, gives a girl. And as to the rest of it: With fair luck I’ll be a director before long.”

Margot put her hand on his arm and gave it a little squeeze.

“That was crude of me, Gene. Forgive me. I really meant that we’re both too young and unsettled to marry. I want to make good first, quite on my own. If I don’t make the grade—a star, you know—and if I grow old and ugly,” the very thought of it made her laugh gaily, “why then I really might need you, Gene, but by that time, being a mere man, of course you wouldn’t want me.”

He drew her nearer to him and his eyes darkened with emotion.

“I’d always want you, darling, and you could never be old or ugly to me.”

“Where oh where have I heard those words before! Something strangely familiar about them.” She laughed, then sobered quickly as Gene drew back, hurt by her levity.

“I’m only teasing, dear, but you must admit, if you’ve got a sense of humor, that it is awfully funny how every man when he’s in love, always tells the woman that she could never be old or ugly to him.”

“You can’t imagine that an occasional man might mean it when he says it?” Gene spoke a little coldly.

“Why, my dear, they all mean it! That’s the funniest part of it.”

Gene reached for his hat and coat.

“You seem determined to squelch any sentiment between us to-night.”

“To-night—yes. It’s fearfully late, Gene, dear, and you must go, really.”

He turned toward the door without a word, nor any attempt to caress her. A cynical man of the world could not have chosen a surer way of putting the initiative into the woman’s hands. Margot moved a little nearer to him, then she said:

“You may kiss me good-night, Gene.”

Gene was too much in love to play the game dexterously. He dropped hat and coat and took her eagerly into his arms. For a short moment she relaxed in his embrace and even kissed him with instinctive response to his passion. Then, as she turned her head away from his encroaching kisses, a sudden thought stilled his passion. He looked at her with troubled eyes.

“Darling, I can’t bear to think of you living alone here, after what you told us about this house. You’re taking chances and it worries me horribly.”

“Don’t be absurd, Gene. And remember, I have my own telephone, right by my bed. I’m indebted for that to the women who occupied this room after Stella Ball left. It’s expensive but convenient.”

“I’m glad it’s by your bed. Easy to get at, if you wanted to call the police.”

“ ‘Police’!” she echoed with a laugh. “You’re determined to stage a melodrama. If it got to the point of having to call the police I guess I’d be beyond help.”

“Seriously, Margot, I’m anxious. Let me give you a ring in the next half hour. I shan’t sleep unless I hear your voice before you drop off yourself.”

“Idiot!” She gave him a playful shove in the direction of the door. “Don’t you dare call me this time of night—morning, really. I’ll be in bed before you’ve turned the corner, and sound asleep before you’ve used your latchkey.”

An hour later, Margot, with a weary sigh disposed of the last plate and spoon, and emptied the ashes out of the last overflowing ash tray. She undressed and tip-toed to the bathroom for a shower. It would be a cold one at that hour, and it would make her wakeful, but she felt stuffy and cigarette smoke seemed to have penetrated right through her clothes. A few strokes of the brush over her thick bobbed hair, then she gave another sigh, of comfort this time, as she propped up her pillows, took a book from the night table and lighted a cigarette. She was so wide awake she knew that she would have to read herself into a relaxed state of mind. She kept a dull novel on hand to act as a sleeping potion, for often she found it difficult to quiet her active mind.

The book wobbled in her hand, and her eyelids drooped. But she wasn’t quite sleepy enough yet, so she clutched the book a little tighter. The cigarette trembled between her lips and almost fell. She put it on the ash tray, squeezing the lighted end. Then—droop, droop of the eyelids, and she let the book fall to the coverlet. But the electric light! Oh, dear! She must reach out and snap the thing off. Perhaps the very slight muscular exertion of moving her arm, and pulling the chain, stirred the nerves at the base of her brain. Darkness, and stillness, yet that delightful drowsiness was gone.

A faint ray of light came through the window opening on the roof-garden. It was from a distant street lamp. It left the shadows on either side of it the more dense. Perhaps another puff at her cigarette would be enough to soothe her wakefulness. She reached out and took it from the tray, picked up a match and lighted what was left of her cigarette.

A puff as she held the match to it then, more asleep than awake, Margot stretched her arm over the side of the bed, and dropped the still burning match to the floor. The next second and she was once more alert. A lighted paper match on a thin, worn old rug! She had seen the evil little things burn holes in tables, and the edges of mantels, and she had ruined the handle of a good knife with the careless dropping of a lighted match. Vaguely these things went through her mind as she leaned over the side of the bed and looked for the match.

Her outstretched hand was poised above the coverlet. She had located the match and had put out her arm to reach down for it. Then—without sound, almost it seemed to her petrified gaze, without movement—a small, thin hand, then a forearm, reached out from under her bed.

Stricken with terror, her heart first missing a beat, then seeming to be in her throat, strangling her, Margot watched the hand reach to the match and tap it softly with thin fingers, crushing the burning end. Then—back, without sound, back whence it had come, disappearing under the bed.

Margot lay rigid, eyes staring into the darkness, lips parted and stiff. The first paralysis of horror at the incredible thing she had seen, quickened to a definite and agonized fear—a personal and feminine fear.

Someone—a man of course—was under the bed. He must have been there all the evening. He had tapped the lighted match because it might have set fire to the rug, and led to his discovery. He didn’t think she had seen him reach out for the flame. He’d wait till he was sure she was asleep, then he’d come creeping out—creeping—creeping——

Burglary! Ridiculous! Margot’s clever brain could function, in spite of her fear. Surely no New York burglar would hide in a house for hours where all the rooms were occupied! He would break in when all was still and safe. Besides, what had she, or anyone living in such a house, that a burglar would want? It was not theft. She felt sure of that. A maniac—an escaped maniac, a paranoiac, who had picked her out as the one on whom to avenge an imagined grievance. As a medical student she had come to know the possibilities where paranoiacs were concerned.

Murder! That’s what it was. Murder! God in Heaven, how long would the creature wait? She dared not scream, and who would hear her if she did? Walls and doors in that old house were so thick as to be almost sound-proof. She’d go mad if she had to endure this suspense much longer! If she were to break down and become hysterical, that would be the end, right there! Whatever she did, she must keep a cool head!

A violent wrench of nerves and muscles and will, then she raised a hand that was icy cold and stiff, and switched on the light on the night table.