Chapter IX: Hidden Motives

Frederick Stoner stood on the doorsill, holding hat and stick, and striving to smile as if his presence on the threshold of Margot’s room was the most natural of all natural happenings.

In Margot’s gray eyes, surprise changed swiftly to a cold dismissal. Her aloofness and her obvious disinclination to make the most perfunctory gesture of welcome, brought the landlady forward from where she stood in the shadows of the hall. She put a nervous, apologetic hand on Margot’s arm.

“The gentleman said that he was a friend of yours, and your boss, out where you do your play acting. And he said he must see you most particular to-night. And I saw him when he come to your party, so I thought it was all right and I brought him up stairs, my dear.”

“It’s all right, Mrs. Bellew. Wait a minute, please,” she added hastily seeing the landlady’s gentle movement toward the head of the stairs. Margot turned steely eyes on Stoner. “What is it you wish to see me about, Mr. Stoner?”

He fumbled his hat and he fumbled his reply.

“Why--er--it’s about--in relation to--this matter of the--the mystery you’re trying to solve, Margot.”

“What do you mean? Another warning such as you gave me this morning?” Her gaze did not waver nor grow less coldly repellent. It was one thing to use diplomacy with Stoner on his own ground, the studio, but when he had the impudence to force himself upon her privacy, without permission or even warning, no diplomacy was required.

“Not that at all,” he said hastily. “Nothing of that sort, Miss Anstruther. I’ve taken the liberty of calling on you to tell you of something that’s occurred to me that may be helpful to you.”

She frowned, a little puzzled by his manner and his remark. Odd of Stoner, the aggressive, self-sufficient Stoner, to conduct himself in so Uriah Heepish a manner. No unbending came to her reception of him. She stood guard over her threshold with senses alert and watchful.

“I don’t think I quite understand. Helpful in what way? Just what do you mean, may I ask?”

He drew himself up and took a firmer grip of his position. Margot read in the pursing of his thick lips, his realization that his deference to her wasn’t getting him anywhere.

“After seeing you to-day, Margot, I had a brainstorm, I guess you’d call it. Or call it a hunch, or anything you like. Anyway, something came into my head, and I couldn’t wait to tell you all about it. I’ve got an idea it may go far to clear up your mystery.”

Mrs. Bellew’s shuddering gasp and quick approach to Margot made her smile. She decided to ask Stoner to come into the room, but the landlady must come also.

“Very well, if you’ve something interesting to tell me, Mr. Stoner, I’m willing to listen to it. Won’t you come in? You also Mrs. Bellew.” She stood aside to let them enter, but Stoner drew back.

“Sorry,” he said quickly, “but what I have to say is strictly confidential.”

Perhaps it was the terseness of his refusal to talk before Mrs. Bellew that decided Margot to interview him unchaperoned. If he had expostulated with excuses or supplications, she would have let him go. He seemed in earnest, and determined, and her quickly aroused curiosity where he was concerned, decided her to dismiss Mrs. Bellew. She turned to the eager dame with a kindly smile.

“I’m sorry, Mrs. Bellew, but if Mr. Stoner feels that he can’t discuss the matter except with me, I’m afraid I’ll have to ask you to let me withdraw my invitation.”

With the door closed on the landlady’s retreating figure, Margot wished for a second that she had refused to receive Stoner alone. However, what did it matter! What could he do to her anyway! She indicated a place for the bestowal of his hat and coat, then sat down, pointing to a chair a few feet from her. The preliminary rites of asking permission to smoke, and lighting his and her cigarette, left them at last with the blue haze of smoke and an awkward silence between them. Then Margot asked him what it was he had thought might be of significance in the clearing up of her mystery.

“Well, Margot, by the time I’ve told you what I’ve doped out, I hope I’ll be able to share honors with you and Mr. Sherlock Holmes. I didn’t know I had it in me, but from what I’ve heard of the details of your story, I believe I’ve hit on something that you haven’t even thought of.”

“What _is_ it?” She was growing impatient.

“Just a minute now. I don’t want to make a fool of myself. I’ve got a theory and I believe it’s workable, but I’m not going to spill it without having some chance to verify it for my own benefit. Of course I’ve read the stuff in the papers, but I want to see the room for myself, and make certain observations before telling you what I think.”

Margot’s reasoning powers and sense of justice told her that either she must dismiss Stoner and his theories forthwith, or, if curious to learn what his theory was, and willing to believe in his sincerity in the matter, then she must let him do what he suggested doing, for obviously one couldn’t be sure of a theory holding water if it was built on hearsay and second-hand descriptions. It would do no harm to show him the room, in any case. The policeman on guard wouldn’t care whom she brought. So she told Stoner that she would show him the room, but that he would have to make his inspection in the presence of the policeman.

They went to the floor below, knocked and were admitted by one of the men who alternated with Quinlan and Boyle. The room was dimly lighted. Evidently it had been decided not to keep guard in the darkness, at least during what the Irishman called the “shank of the evening.”

Margot watched Stoner throw a swift, appraising look over the room. He turned to her saying:

“You’ve left all your own things down here, haven’t you?”

“Everything but my personal effects. It seemed best that way.”

Stoner addressed the cop with genial familiarity.

“Mind if I give this place the once over? Here, have one?” He gave the cop a fat cigar. “I’ll have a squint behind the bed first off the bat, I guess.”

Margot couldn’t repress a smile of vast amusement, seeing the heavy bulk that was Stoner, get down on all fours and look under the bed. He got to his feet and pulled out the brass bed. Then again he got down on the floor, looked at the walls and along the baseboard. He had the air of doing all this as a matter of form, because all the rest had done the same thing. He turned to Margot with a wave of his arm at the bed, then said, as he pushed the bed back in place:

“Just eliminating. Have to look at every detail of course, the way the rest of the Sherlocks have been doing. Now for something more to the point.”

He walked to the door leading to the roof-garden, then walked back to the bed, slowly pacing off the distance. Then he returned to the door, opened it and went out on the roof. Margot could see him gazing at the houses across the way, whose rear windows could be seen with curtains drawn back and bright lights shining. He re-entered the room and went to the window, looked out, then squatted down as he was accustomed to do when looking from certain angles at scenes he was about to have shot. He peered through his hands at the bed and at the floor beside the bed, and again he looked out of the window.

By that time the policeman was gaping in sheer astonishment at the antics of this strange man. Margot, not in the least impressed but wondering what Stoner was getting at, waited in silence. Then he walked to the bed and stood looking down at the rug.

“Show me exactly where you saw that light--where you saw the hand tap the light out.”

Margot showed him.

“Do you sleep with your shade up?”

“Yes, usually, so it won’t flap with the window open.”

“When you leaned over the side of the bed to look for the match you dropped, did you reach your arm over the side a ways before you saw the hand?”

Wondering what he had in his mind, but convinced now that he had something more than an idle curiosity, or a ruse to visit her against her will, Margot told him that so far as she remembered, she did stretch out her arm over the side of the bed before she saw the hand.

“Humph! I thought as much.” He grinned with satisfaction, and gave the policeman another cigar. “Now, Margot, I’ve got every reason for feeling sure of my little theory. Come over here a minute.” He walked to the window, opened it, and pointed across the way.

“See that house over there, directly in line with this window?”

“Yes,” said Margot, vaguely, standing behind him.

He turned, looking back at the bed.

“See that place on the rug where you saw the light? Right in a line with this window, isn’t it?”

Margot nodded, seeing that his comment was correct. A dim suspicion of what he had in mind, had come to her, and with it a slight quickening of interest in what more he had to say.

“Well, go on. What’s the answer?”

“My dear young lady, not here. In your present abode, if you don’t mind.”

Simple and natural of course. No reason why he should air his theory, good or bad, before the policeman. Again Margot’s reason made it impossible for her to refuse his request. As the door closed on them, and he sat once more in her easy chair, he smiled, a long, slow smile of utter contentment.

“Don’t keep me in suspense,” she said with a little laugh.

“Now listen carefully. Anyone standing at the window of that floor in that house I pointed out to you, could flash a light straight into your room. With the clever use of a burning-glass, a spot from a calcium light backed by a reflector could be made to move about and do queer stunts on that rug where the policeman saw the light. You were half asleep you said, and it all happened in a jiffy. I’ve seen queer things done with a mirror.”

She listened, amazed at the ingenuity of his theory.

“But the arm and hand. Calcium light and a burning-glass can do a good deal, but they can’t manufacture hands and arms.”

“Why, my dear girl, I’m surprised at you. You’re too smart to ask such a question! You put your arm over the side of the bed, to reach for the match. Well, it’s so simple it’s funny! The light and the mirror threw the reflection of your own arm and hand on the rug.”

“But,” Margot gasped, half convinced. “I _saw_ a hand _tap_ the match.”

“Sure you did. You saw your own hand tap that match. Don’t you understand? You saw an apparently ghostly arm and hand on the floor. You were scared stiff, and you didn’t know after that _what_ you did or didn’t do. Automatically you did the very thing you’d started out to do--put out the match. Of course you thought you saw another hand do it. Isn’t it clear?”

Margot almost thought it was, but she wasn’t quite sure.

“How about the hand and arm seen by Boyle?”

“Good Lord! That doesn’t need much explaining, seems to me. Case of superstitious fear. You’d told how _you_ saw the hand, so when the calcium light flashed again--pleasant little practical joke, by the way--it stands to reason, doesn’t it, that Boyle imagined the same thing you saw, even to tapping out the light.”

The logic of the argument was evident, and the theory as to the calcium light and the mirror fairly reasonable. Margot felt sure of that. But deep down in her consciousness was a strange conviction, and it grew as she listened to Stoner and watched his face. It was the conviction that his theory was actually false, that Stoner knew it was false, and that for some reason too obscure to imagine, he was intent upon convincing her of its validity. The queer sensation of distrust of the man was stronger than ever before.

She knew what she must do. She must not let him guess her distrust of him--foundless as it actually was--nor let him realize that every instinct she possessed was ranged against the sincerity or plausibility of his amazing theory. So she smiled sweetly and said:

“You’re tremendously clever, Mr. Stoner. I’d never have thought of such a thing in a thousand years. I shall certainly follow up your theory. It will be easy to find out who lives in that house and in that apartment, and look into the matter of the calcium light.”

“Good Lord, you wouldn’t be so foolish. You don’t suppose anyone given to practical jokes like that is going to admit it. You’d never find out or prove a thing. My only idea in telling you about it is to help you eliminate other theories that may lead you into all sorts of trouble and waste of time.”

“I see,” she said softly, watching his face through the smoke from her parted lips, her eyes half closed. “And of course, even if we did succeed in proving that the lights were a practical joke, and even if I were convinced that I saw my own hand put out the match, in a moment of hysteria, that wouldn’t any of it explain the entrance into my room by way of the roof, of Miss Stella Ball, would it, Mr. Stoner?”

His thick lips pouted. His eyes glowered at her.

“You don’t think much of my theory, after all, do you?”

“Yes,” she said quickly. “I think it’s a marvelous theory, and I think it ought to be given due consideration. But I think that there are other things to consider also.”

“What, for instance?”

“Well,” she said slowly, “I’ve still got a little theory of my own about Stella Ball being in some way connected with what I saw.”

“Ridiculous!” His exclamation was almost savage in its disgust. “What in the name of God _could_ she have to do with it--a common midnight marauder--a little sneak thief!”

“Well, that’s all got to be proved, Mr. Stoner.”

“Do you mean to say,” he stared at her, “that you persist in going on with this silly investigation?”

Quickly she decided to lie to him.

“Well, perhaps you’re right. Perhaps it would be a waste of time, and do me harm. Perhaps I’d better take your advice, Mr. Stoner.”

She hadn’t imagined what her sudden meekness would bring forth. He sprang to his feet, went toward her with outstretched arms and bent over her murmuring:

“You’re a darling. You do care a little for me, don’t you?”

Margot got to her feet without confusion or haste. She stepped out of his reach and said quietly:

“Mr. Stoner, you must really understand that I don’t permit any man to come to my room alone to make love to me. I let you in because you had something important to tell me. Now please leave this love business out of it altogether.”

For a moment he stood still looking at her. Then he said:

“Look here, Margot! Is this stuff about being alone in your room, the truth, or are you stalling because you won’t let me make love to you here or anywhere else?”

She hesitated. “Let’s talk about that some other time,” she said gently.

“No! You’ll tell me here and now. Valery comes to your room, doesn’t he! I’m crazy about you, girl. I can’t stand it, I tell you.”

There was no mistaking the look in his eyes. No matter what he had come for, nor what his motives might be for elaborating the theory about the lights, she had now to deal with a man whose passions were something to be reckoned with. She moved a step farther away from him. It was an unwise move. Suddenly, and without warning, he sprang across the space between them, seized her, and crushed her in his big arms. She struggled, but he was stronger than she, and he pinned her arms to her sides, and kissed her with furious, pent-up desire; kissed her mouth, her throat, her shoulder, all the time drawing her over to the couch against the wall.

Margot would not scream. It would be a senseless thing to do. With all her rage and strength she fought him. She tore one hand free and with all her force struck him across the mouth. The pain of the blow was nothing, but the fact that she would strike him seemed to change the current of his passion. He let her go and stood looking at her, wiping the blood from his cut lips with his handkerchief.

“Some men,” he said slowly, “like to be hit and even bitten by a woman when she’s angry. I don’t, not when it’s clear that the woman hasn’t any use for me. I’m through trying to make love to you, Miss Margot Anstruther. And I’m through with a few other things too.”

“You had no right to force your kisses on me,” she said quietly.

“Let that pass. I’ll give you one more chance. Will you or will you not, try to like me and promise to marry me later on?”

“Good Heavens, no!” she said, with so much sincerity that it was like a dash of cold water in his face. He stared angrily, then he said:

“Just one thing more. Will you or will you not, drop this damn foolishness about this mystery stuff?”

“I will not drop it,” she said with quiet defiance.

He walked to where he had thrown his hat and coat, and picked them up. Then he stood glowering at her across the room.

“That’s all, then. Consider yourself fired from the Superfilm Company. And Valery will find a notice for himself to-morrow morning. I’m damn sorry I gave you the job that day, instead of Lulu.”

“You had your good reasons for that, Mr. Stoner.” Before he could speak, she added quickly: “Why punish Gene for what I’ve done?”

“Because I can get at you through him. Also because I’m sick of the very sight of him. But any time you change your mind about marrying me, just let me know. You’ll get your job back if you do.”

With that he stalked out of the room.

For a long time after Margot put out her light, she lay in the darkness thinking. Strange and ingenious that theory of Stoner’s, but far stranger still the motive under the theory. She knew now, she felt it deeply, that he had some motive, other than his desire to force her to drop the case. At least--her thoughts grew a little confused as she grew less wakeful--it wasn’t like that exactly. His motive for advancing the theory was obviously to make her drop _her_ theories, and the motive back of that was what she couldn’t fathom. Well--if for a moment she had been intrigued by Stoner’s theory, even to the point of taking it seriously, she had swung back to a rational contemplation of him and his theories. As to her own, they were something to take up with Gene the next day. Poor Gene! It was a shame. But he’d get a job with some other company, and so would she. But not till she’d solved the mystery of the arm that tapped the lighted match--the arm that most positively was _not_ her own.

As on the night before, her last waking memory was of those strange, pale eyes of Stoner’s, looking at her through a mist of hidden thought and motive and desire.