And standing there in that silent corridor, Mrs Blackburn knew it had happened again; that something had occurred that was against all natural, accepted laws; that within half an hour, a woman and a man, solid, matter-of-fact figures of flesh, bone and blood, had stepped into the haunted room at Kettering Old House and had disappeared – vanished – almost in the twinkling of an eye.
‘Now are you satisfied?’ asked Elizabeth.
‘No,’ replied Mr Blackburn, ‘far from satisfied.’
‘I should say not,’ grunted his host. Jim Rutland’s face was pale; on his upper lip were tiny beads of perspiration and Jeffery realised that of them all, this man seemed the most scared. Suddenly, as though conscious of Blackburn’s eyes on him, Rutland turned toward the fireplace and made a little helpless gesture. ‘What happens now? What should we do?’
‘We must,’ said Florence Rountree firmly, ‘remain very calm.’ A thin wisp of grey hair streaked across her forehead and she pushed it back, only to have it fall again. ‘We must remain perfectly tranquil in mind. Thoughts are things – tangible things.’ And she fixed her pale eyes on Elizabeth as if daring her to debate the point.
Half an hour had passed since the disappearance of John Wilkins and the return of the slightly dazed party to the reception room. But not before both Jeffery and Lambert had insisted on a thorough examination of that exasperating chamber. Each man, with the help of Rutland, had taken a section of the wall and sounded it with the thoroughness bred of savage bewilderment. This was no haphazard examination as before; now no single foot of wall escaped their scrutiny.
With absolutely no result!
Elizabeth rose abruptly. ‘I’m going to ‘phone the police.’
But Jeffery put out a restraining hand.
‘What are you going to tell them?’ he asked.
‘That two people in this house walked into a certain room and faded like a dream?’
‘At least they’d do something.’
‘Something is right.’ It was Evan Lambert. ‘They’d probably cart us all off to the asylum!’
‘That,’ said Elizabeth firmly, ‘would be a rest-cure compared to what’s been happening here.’ Evading Jeffery’s hand, she crossed to the hall and they heard the flicking of the pages of a telephone book. Then came the whirr of a number being dialled.
Florence Rountree broke the silence. ‘All this,’ she announced, ‘would be quite unnecessary if you’d only listen to me.’
‘I know,’ snapped Rutland, ‘those people didn’t really disappear. We just imagined it!’
Miss Rountree’s small mouth set. ‘There is no occasion to be rude, James -’
From where the lady sat, she could not perceive the mocking curve of Lambert’s mouth as he said ‘You mean. Miss Rountree, that our minds, conditioned by the legend of the room, were already expecting it to be empty?’
She beamed on him, nodding triumphantly. ‘Exactly, Mr Lambert. You saw not with the eye, but with the brain.’
‘Oh, fiddle-faddle,’ snapped Rutland.
‘James!’ squeaked Miss Rountree.
There was tension in the air and nerves were stretched to breakingpoint. All the material for a first-class row was mounting. Then Lambert, with an almost sadistic satisfaction, chuckled in his corner.
‘Then, madam, according to your reasoning, Mrs Rutland and Wilkins are still down in that room, playing handy-pandies! Just wait until the local police hear that!’
‘The local police,’ said Mrs Blackburn from the doorway, ‘aren’t going to hear anything, at least not on this phone!’ She held up the hand-instrument and the useless flex coiled limply across the floor. ‘It’s been cut through with a pair of scissors, I’d say.’
‘Now that,’ said Mr Blackburn softly ‘is most interesting.’ He turned to Rutland. ‘How far away is the police station?’
‘Matter of five miles,’ the other answered. ‘We’re pretty isolated down here.’
‘That,’ returned Jeffery, ‘seems to have been the idea! Whoever is responsible for those vanishing tricks doesn’t want a police investigation. So I suggest you hop in your car and bring over the local sergeant.’
‘But – can he do any good?’
Jeffery regarded him thoughtfully. ‘I may be quite wrong, Jim. But I have an idea that once the police are brought into this, the whole mystery will collapse like a house of cards.’ Suddenly his manner became brisk. ‘Now, jump to it, old man. Meanwhile, I’ve another little job on my hands.’
Rutland, halfway out of the room, paused and looked back. ‘What’s that?’ he asked.
Mr Blackburn said complacently, ‘Me – I’m a detective, so now I’m going to start to detect.’
Jeffery Blackburn held the flame of the candle to the cigarette between his lips, then bending, placed the light on the rough floor and surveyed his surroundings. He blew a thin fan of smoke that hung on the motionless air, then began to unfold and undulate slowly, reaching out grey tentacles to the grey walls that hemmed him in.
Two people had entered this room, and approximately fifteen seconds later, had vanished from it. There was, of course, the legend, but that sinister story made no mention of an amputated telephone wire. To prevent news of these fantastic happenings reaching outside of Kettering, someone had cut all communication. Obviously because a police investigation must reveal the means by which these disappearances had been contrived.
How the devil did one get out of a locked room? Not by any secret passage through the walls, of that he was convinced. By the door? But that massive, two foot thickness of stone had been shut and bolted on the outside.
Jeffery tossed his cigarette aside and crossed to the entrance. The heavy door hung half-open. He raised both hands in an effort to push it wider, but to his surprise the massive portal moved so easily that he suspected oil on the hinges. But the dry grinding in his ears dismissed such a suggestion.
Mr Blackburn frowned.
Something was wrong. Somewhere, at the back of his mind, two small details clashed and contradicted. Standing there in the entrance, one hand on the rough stonework of the door, Jeffery sent his mind racing back over the details of Wilkins’s disappearance.
They had walked out of that room. With a thrust of his arm, Rutland had pushed the door shut and slid the bolts. But – and here Jeffery’s eyes narrowed suddenly – when Wilkins’s muffled cry had sent them racing back, it had taken the combined efforts of the three men to open this same door. This curious, grey, enigmatic door, which was light and easy to move at one time – and fifteen seconds later, so much heavier -
‘Give!’ said Mr Blackburn and tapped the door encouragingly. Next moment, his fingers snapped back as though the surface had become white-hot. Wonderingly, almost incredulously, he tapped again and this time there was no mistaking that hollow resonance.
The door was nothing more than a hollow shell!
‘Oh, my aunt,’ whispered Jeffery. He stared unbelievingly. But surely there was some mistake? They had sounded the four walls – Lambert, Rutland and himself. He even recalled Rutland thumping and bumping on the solid stonework surrounding the doorway. Then, surely, if the door had given up its secret so easily to Jeffery, Rutland must have known, too?
And if he did?
Mr Blackburn chuckled softly. One part of the tangle was already coming free in his mind, so that he could follow the loosening end to a logical conclusion. In time, he would deal with the second snarl. But first things first. Jeffery switched on his torch and moving closer to the door began running tentative fingers over the surface.
Ten minutes later, he walked into the reception room. Elizabeth, dozing in front of the dying fire, blinked at his dusty but patently triumphant expression.