Phantom fingers

Front matter

EFORE the horror-filled eyes of

a terrified audience, Augustin Arnold, the matinee idol of New York City, is strangled to death on the stage of the Grand Theater, by invisible hands, whose unseen fingers have wrapped themselves about his neck. ‘he understudy, who takes up the ,murdered man’s part, is throttled in the same mysterious manner and comes within an ace of losing his life.

Then the messages of the phantom murderer to Betty Sargent, the leading lady, are discovered. They are signed, “An Unknown Admirer”, and they set Steve Muirhead, detective-adventurer, on the phantom trail that twists its way mysteriously through New York’s theatrical underworld.

CHAPTER I HE Grand Theatre is one of the oldest in New

York. It is peopled by the ghosts of thirty, forty

and fifty years ago. This theater is a ramshackle and tremendous place with two balconies, as they used to build them then. It was opened by a play in which the great Constance Daly, now forgotten by everyone but the real old-timers, was starred. She was then at the height of her fame, and it was said that Ambrose Benedict had built this theater expressly for her. There was much more gossip at the time, of course, but it is well not to go too heavily into that at this time. It may come up again, however.

Occasionally a feature film goes into it now, but otherwise its seats are covered with dust and its stage is dark. In the far corners of the very large stage, against the exposed brick of the back walls, lean rickety sets, painted walls for hovels and gilded walls for living rooms, drops with street scenes painted on them in which the men wear tight pants and the women long skirts and hair, a canvas forest in which the tremendous numbers of William Shakespeare have resounded, some red plush furniture that no one has ever claimed;

all dirty, all covered with the dust of years, and all forgotten.

Two or three years ago, however, the Humberts had a play called ‘“The Leopard’s Spots” rehearsing there, preparatory to opening in that same theater. It was a good season in New York and. every theater was occupied. There seemed,no reason not to use the Grand, and indeed there was none. The acoustics were very nearly the best in New York, the lobby was spacious in the old manner, the house was very large and in case of a real success, would return much profit, and the only objection to it seemed to be that it was below Fortysecond Street.

This lengthy preamble is necessary because I want you to have a pretty fair conception of the place where all this happened, that you may the better understand the subsequent events.

The rehearsals for ‘“The Leopard’s Spots” went very well indeed. It was the first play in which Betty Sargent, a beautiful and talented young actress, was to be featured. The star was Augustin Arnold, one of the finest young romantic actors in the country, and the second act of the play was distinguished by as impassioned a love scene between the two as has ever been played on our stage. I know, because I saw it in rehearsal. The reason it was never given in full on the opening of the play, or thereafter, constitutes one of the jumping-off places for this curious chronicle.

Four days before the play was to open the management of the piece received a curious note. It was written on an ordinary sheet of typewriting paper, such as every stenographer is familiar with, and which is usually used for second sheets. The typewriting was a trifle inexpert, but otherwise undistinguished. It read:

Do not try to continue with your play, “The Leopard’s Spots,” or it will be the worse for you. It will be well if you heed this warning.

Pro Bono PUBLICco.

No particular attention was paid to this message, of course, for every office that is much in the public eye is in receipt of crank letters. The next day, however, the office received another one from the same source, and in the same typewriting. This one read:

Cease rehearsals of “The Leopard’s Spots” on receipt of this friendly warning, if you wish to avert a tragedy. You will never be allowed to continue with the play. If you wish to save trouble, disband the cast ane abandon the play.

CoNnsTANT READER.

It was puzzling, of course, but nothing particular was done about it, for they were busy with a thousand and one details and had no time to bother with a halfwit who was taking this safe way of amusing himself. The signature on the letters was peculiar, of course, but even that was explainable. The letters must have been written, some one in the office decided, by one of the cranks who writes anonymous letters to the newspapers, for he had retained even the usual signatures of the anonymous newspaper letter writers.

On the third day, the day of the dress rehearsal, they received another warning—or rather Augustin Arnold, the star, received it. It was obviously from the same source, being on the same kind of paper and in the same typewriting. He did not know about the two previous letters, and would have paid no attention to it, for a well-known star receives many anonymous communications, but he happened to mention the matter, quite casually, to Ike Humbert, and as Ike was in possession of the other two letters, he naturally put two and one together and got’no answer. The note this time read:

Do not play in “The Leopard’s Spots’ tomorrow night if you wish to continue in the land of the living. This is a serious warning, and it will be fatal to you to disregard it. A WELL-WISHER.

This is where I came into the thing. I am on the force. There is a little more to it, but let that come later. Let it be enough to say that, having a little more money than is quite good for me, I decided that the detective force of a large city was a good place to satisfy my lust for excitement and change, and that, with a little carefully placed influence, I managed to get myself appointed.

Well, anyway, Humbert called up the Chief and told him about it, and the Chief promised to send a man around at once. That was me. If I could have seen what I was going into, it might have given me pause, for the thing led me emotionally far afield from where I started, but you will hear more of that later, so we will let the matter rest at present.

I called on Humbert at his office, and Ike, whom I happened to know rather well, showed me the notes. I read them in silence, but there must have been an amused gleam in my eyes, for Ike said:

“So you think it’s funny, what?” He glared at me. “We invest fifty thousand dollars in a show and some damn fool tries to make us close even before we open, and you think it’s a funny joke, ain’t it so?”

I laughed. ‘Well, you have to admit that these notes are rather funny,” I said.

“I wish I had your sense of humor, Steve .. . or rather, thanks to God I haven't, because what a damn fool I’d be if I had, not so?”

‘“’That’s a little involved,” I said, ‘but I know what you mean. You're reversing the usual procedure by thanking God for not having a sense of humor. However, if you don’t see anything funny about these notes ,

“Well, what’s so funny about them notes, then?”

he demanded. “I didn’t see a single gag in them, and I got an eye for gags, as anybody in this business’ll tell you. Come on, make me laugh! What’s so funny there?”

“The signatures, for one thing. They’re signed: Pro Bono Publico, Constant Reader, and A Well- Wisher ‘i

‘Well, how else would you sign them?” demanded Ike Humbert, looking at me a little belligerently. “Tsn’t that the only way you're allowed to sign an anonymous letter, hey? Sense of humor! You got as much sense of humor as a stage doorkeeper. Now tell me another one.”

I looked at him a little uncertainly, for I couldn’t at the moment make out whether he was kidding me or really meant it.

“Well, never mind, Ike,” I said. ‘We won’t go any further into that. If you don’t think that’s funny, why, then, the other obvious expressions in these notes won't be funny, either. Just what do you want me to do about this, then?” I asked.

He looked at me in astonishment. ‘‘Why I want you to go see the feller that’s sending these notes and tell him that he has to stop it, because I’m too busy to bother with such nonsense now.”

‘And will you tell me his name and address?” I asked with a heavy sarcasm which was entirely lost on

Ike Humbert.

“How should I know it?” he yelled at me. He always yelled when he was beginning to lose his temper. They were used to it at his office, and no one any longer paid any attention to the agonized screams of rage and excitement that were constantly emanating from Ike Humbert’s private office.

“How should I know it?’ he repeated. “Would I send for a detective if I knew it myself? You're supposed to be able to find out such things, not? Go ahead and find out.”

I was silent for a moment, for there was no use in engaging in this kind of a discussion with Ike. One got nowhere. Then I said:

“Have you any ideas in the matter at all? Have you the slightest inkling as to what might be the origin of these notes. Have you discharged anyone lately, or: ”

“Not the slightest idea,” said Ike, changing his front disconcertingly. ‘To tell you the truth, I don’t think I'd pay a great deal of attention to them, if I were you. If you'll just have an extra man or two in the theater tomorrow night—lI’ll get the tickets for you—and be back stage yourself, that'll reassure Augustin Arnold, and that’s all I want. If he feels at all nervous, it might affect his acting. These temperamental actors . . .” he sighed and gazed at me for sympathy.

“All right,” I said, rising, for he was already beginning to look at some of the papers on his desk, indicating that he was busy. “I'll scout around and if I turn up anything, I’ll let you know.”

“Good. So long, Steve,” he said, shaking my hand. “And, Steve "

“What?”

“T’ll leave a ticket for you at the box office. If he asks you to pay the war tax, tell him I said it would be O. K.” He smiled and waved me out.

I did scout around, making a few inquiries in the places that seemed most logical to me, but could get nowhere, and finally decided that Ike Humbert was right, and that they were the usual crank letters that were not worth bothering about. The time was very limited and the possibilities were endless, so there was little chance to do anything but the most obvious things.

I inquired from Humbert’s stenographer as to who had been discharged lately, and received a short list which was not very fruitful, though I looked into it faithfully, even going so far as to make a trip to the Bronx on a wild goose chase that netted me absolutely nothing. I also talked to the members of the cast, in the hope that perhaps one of them might have some idea as to just what was happening, and who was doing it, but there was no light there. I did not see Betty Sargent, who was out doing some last minute shopping, but I saw all the rest of them, and I thought it would be just as well if nothing was said that might disturb Miss Sargent just before her first night.

Chapter II

N appearance, the first night seemed to be going off as usual. The usual bored looking critics were in the aisle seats, the usual enthusiastic crowd of

relatives and friends of the cast and of the author were there, highly pleased with everything beginning with the setting for the first act, which they applauded on the rise of the curtain without knowing anything about it, to the appearance of the second maid and butler, who had tremendously small parts and tremendously noisy and enthusiastic followers in the orchestra and balcony of the theater.

As is usual at first nights, there were small hitches. The lines were forgotten once or twice by nervous actors, and were supplied in loud, hoarse whispers from a prompter in the wings, whose red face was occasionally visible when he got too agitated and leaned out a little too far. At the end of the first act the curtain stuck and did not come down for a full thirty seconds, making it difficult for the actors on the stage to hold the tableau, as they had, unfortunately, no more lines to speak and dared not call on their imagination in the way of collaboration with an author who had, unaccountably, failed to supply sufficient witty speeches to cover such an emergency.

All these things, and more, were happening, as 1s usual and customary at first nights, but the fact remained that the piece was going very well indeed. From the rise of the curtain it gave promise of being the success that’ Ike Humbert had prophesied for it; though this prophecy had rather lost its effect from the fact that Ike prophesied the same thing of every one of his pieces. This one, however, looked good. There is an air about a success that falls about it at the beginning of its first night ... an unmistakable feeling that every theatrical man knows . . . and this piece had it.

The second act went smoothly. I was in the wings, looking on interestedly, and talking to such members of the cast as were not too nervous to talk when they happened to be standing beside me. Ike Humbert was there, too, back stage, walking nervously about, talking disconnectedly to everybody, being every place, and once or twice nearly having his skull cracked when he got in the way of the impassive and unexcited scene shifters.

He had introduced me to Betty Sargent, a pretty girl with dark hair and flashing, good-humored black eyes, with a lively sense of humor and no fear at all, although it was the first night of the first piece in which she had ever been featured. I had said nothing to her about the mysterious notes that had been received, for fear of throwing her off her game, so to speak, but I could see that it would have done no harm, for there seemed to be no fear of any kind in her.

She chatted with me for awhile, on one of the occasions when she had a short wait in the wings, and I found her very interesting. In fact, I will be quite frank with you and state that I found her more than interesting. I found her absorbing, and I could scarcely take my eyes off her face. I was almost in a daze as she stood near me, and her eyes held mine like a magnet. 1 could see, easily, the fascination she had for an audience. She spoke her lines easily and naturally, as though she were indeed in a drawing room of her own, and she moved with a freedom and grace such as I have seldom seen equaled either on or off the stage.

The second act, as I have said, went smoothly, until toward the end. At the end there was a love scene between Betty Sargent and the star, Augustin Arnold, an impassioned scene that began with talk and ended with a prolonged embrace, as such scenes do. I was not paying too much attention, for Ike Humbert was standing beside me, and we were engaged in an interesting line of talk, but I knew without looking just about what was going on on the stage.

The audience, I realized subconsciously, was in a deep silence, as is the way of audiences during a convincing love passage. The first thing that called my attention to what was going on on the stage was a sudden realization that the silence had become even deeper, impregnated with a horror that it had not had before, a quality of amazed terror that was compounded of surprise and of lack of understanding as to just what was going on.

No sooner had I realized this than there came the terrified scream of a woman in the first row, and as my look flashed back to the stage, bedlam broke loose in the house.

We stood rooted to the spot, Ike Humbert, I, and everybody else in the wings, paralyzed with the drama that was taking place before our eyes. I will never forget the tableau that greeted my eyes as I looked on the stage, which had nobody on it but Betty Sargent and Augustin Arnold. Betty was rooted to her spot, her black eyes gone dead with unnameable horror.

Arnold was reeling about the stage, his eyes popping out of his head, his tongue protruding, his black hair tumbled down, his head thrown back in a gasp for air. Both his hands were clutching desperately at something in front of his throat, something that we could not see; something that was not there. It was the action of a man who was being choked to death by some giant hand of terrific power.

For an instant, I say, we stood rooted to the spot. I guess I recovered myself more quickly than anybody back stage, and I dashed out, but Betty Sargent, who was right on the spot, was quicker. She came out of her horrific daze and leaped to the rescue, trying to drag something away from the throat of the horrified actor. .

‘‘What is it, Augustin?” she shrieked. ‘What is it?”

He flashed her a look of despair and of agony, his face turning blue even in that moment. By that time I was there, too, and Ike Humbert and several members of the cast were on our heels.

I could see nothing, and yet this man was being choked to death before our eyes.

Just before I reached his side he collapsed in a heap on the stage and out of the corner of my eye I could see the curtain descending rapidly, shutting out from the terrified audience the rest of what happened.

I bent over Arnold and tried to help him, though I did not know in just what way he could be helped, or what invisible thing was attacking him. With a last gasp, his tongue hanging out, his head fell back, and he was still. I tugged at something that was at his throat, and felt a solid substance, a substance of warm flesh and bone and muscle.

At his throat was a magnificently strong hand, though I could not see it!

It was like a bar of iron, and I could not budge it from its position. I pulled, and around me resounded the shrieks of the cast, and through the curtain came the uproar of the audience. Suddenly the breath went out of Arnold, and I felt his body grow limp under me.

And suddenly I found I was struggling and pulling at the air, and that there was nothing for my hand to take hold of.

I bent over his body. His head was lying limply back in a peculiar position, as though its supports had been removed . . . I had never seen a head lie in just that fashion except once, the head of a man who had been hanged, after he was cut down with a broken neck—lifeless.

I took one look at him, and straightened up, meeting the agitated gaze of Ike Humbert.

““He’s dead,” I said.

“That’s impossible!’ he almost yelled. ‘‘Why, he was alive a minute ago ... right before our eyes

. it could not be, no?”” He looked at me for confirmation, and around at the circle of cast and stage hands who bent over the body in wonder and fear, their voices hushed and their eyes wild with a light that death only can put into the hunan eye,

I looked again.

“He’s dead,” I said again.

Humbert recovered himself. He was first of all a showman, and his audience was ever present in his mind. No matter what happened to his puppets, his

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audience had to be pacified, calmed, paid back. With a backward look he went before the curtain through the aperture at the right of the proscenium.

It was high time, too, I judged . . . a moment or two later and we would have had a riot on our hands

. a riot composed of fifteen hundred terrified human beings fighting their way out of the building. Hundreds would undoubtedly have been killed.

I could hear Humbert’s calm, measured voice. The man had taken marvelous control of himself. He explained that Mr. Arnold had suddenly been taken ill, and that the performance could not go on. If they would stop at the box office tonight, or any time tomorrow—if they did not care to wait tonight—they could get their money back.

“Is there a doctor in the house?” he asked.

There was a silence, and then a middle-aged man arose about half way back.

“Shall I come back stage?”’ he asked.

‘Please,’ said Humbert.

In the meantime the audience was already moving toward the exits, excited, talking loudly and speculating, nerves shaken, and above all came the hysterical laughter of some woman whose nerves had finally given way.

Humbert stayed on the stage until order had finally been restored and the audience was on its way to the exits, which had been thrown wide open and yawned out into the street and into the alleys on both sides of the theater.

Then he came back stage again, joining the group of us who -bent around the doctor, who was on his knees making an examination of the terribly still form of the fine actor who had been Augustin Arnold.

He had stripped away Arnold’s collar and tie, and was examining his neck closely. In a moment or two he rose and dusted the knees of his trousers, and anybody who had ever seen a doctor’s face when he turned away from a patient who has just breathed his last knew that all hope was gone for Augustin Arnold.

“Ts he—is he . . . gone, doctor?” trembled the voice of Ike Humbert.

The doctor nodded.

‘““He is dead,” he said.

“Dead!” echoed the voices of most of us. ‘‘Dead!’’ echoed the voice of Humbert again.

“Yes,” nodded the doctor.

“But, doctor, how can that be?”’ persisted Humbert. “We were all here—you saw it yourself ... there was nobody near him . . . howcan it be that . . .?’’ his voice trailed away in a whine in his throat. He had lost control of himself, now that he had performed his duty to the audience. In the background I saw the straight figure of Betty Sargent stand, face whire as chalk, black eyes almost lifeless, her body immovable as a statue.

The doctor nodded again.

“He has been choked to death, and his neck was broken. Whoever did that has a grip that is stronger than anything I have ever known,” said the doctor. “He broke his neck with the pressure of his fingers.”

“Who?” came from my amazed lips.

The doctor looked at me frankly. “I don’t know that, any more than any of you seem to know. All I know is that he has been strangled, and his neck broken. It could not have taken more than a few seconds—in fact, it didn’t as we all saw. By the time he dropped down he was practically dead. Look!”

He bent down to the dead man and bared his neck.

On the neck were the marks of four fingers, red and angry on the bloodless skin, sunk deep into the flesh.

‘“'That’s who,” he said, looking up at us.

We turned to each other as though our minds could not grasp what our eyes saw and our ears heard. Here was this man who, a moment or two before, had been full of life and vitality, in the height of his artistic powers, and before our eyes that life had been taken away from him by something we had not been able to see, something we could neither understand nor prevent. It was utterly unbelievable, in spite of the fact that the white, crumpled, and still form of the dead actor lay on the floor of the stage before us, head cruelly and curiously twisted to one side, eyes still open and protruding, and tongue hanging out of his open mouth bluishly, his open mouth, which still seemed grotesquely to be gasping for air for his tortured lungs

. air which he was now never more to receive, throughout eternity.

I repeat, it was unbelievable. And yet, it had happened. Later, I was to wonder whether, if I had been quicker, I could have prevented it. I was to wonder and speculate about the phantom hand I had felt in my fingers, which I had vainly tried to tear away from the throat of its prey. I was to wonder whether I had really seen all this and it was to be some time before I found an answer to it.

“But how could this be, no?” asked Humbert, looking up at the doctor who seemed to him for the moment to represent constituted authority and might, therefore, be able to answer questions that puzzled us.

The doctor shook his head. ‘You saw as much as I did . . . perhaps more. I could see from my seat that the man was being strangled, but I was so surprised, thinking, on the instant, that perhaps it was part of the action of the piece, that it was all over before anyone really had a chance to do anything about it. And even if somebody had jumped to the rescue instantly, it would probably have been too late, because I think his neck was snapped almost in an instant, and after that the rest was just a reflex struggle which only lasted a few seconds. Those finger marks are puzzling and peculiar, however,” he confessed. He looked around at us.

“Of course, I could see nothing from where I sat, but are all of you here sure that you saw absolutely nothing ?”’

‘Nothing,’ came the answer from everybody.

“He seemed to be struggling in the air,” I said. “T saw nothing, but I felt something,” I added.

“Why, what do you mean?” asked the doctor. “I saw you, and you seemed also to be tugging at a piece of thin air . . . it would have looked a little ludicrous and grotesque if it had not palpably been so tragic.”

The white faces of the cast, men and women, crowded around me as I spoke, and I could, out of the corners of my eyes, which were fixed on the doctor’s, see the uncomprehending stare in their faces and the nervous twitching of their muscles.

“Well,” I said, “‘you all saw me pulling at something

. or seeming to pull at something. The fact is, I really was tugging at something. It seemed to be a hand and wrist—or rather, a hand, wrist and forearm, I think. I know this sounds mad,” I said, “and, to tell the truth, I feel a little mad myself, at this moment as I say this, but that is just the way it was. It felt like flesh and blood to me—and you can see by the effect on poor Arnold there, and the marks on his throat—that it really had substance. It was a forearm and hand . . . a hand composed of terribly strong fingers, and muscles like iron. . . .”

“‘Weren’t you able to hold on to it?” asked the doctor, flashing me a keen glance.

“Just about,” I said. ‘But at the moment when I got a really good grip on it, it dissolved.”

There was a silence for a moment, then the faint, but clear voice of Betty Sargent cut in on the stillness.

“Tt dissolved?” her voice asked, and I did not have to look to see how bloodless and drawn her face looked.

“How can flesh and blood dissolve?” came the impetuous, excited voice of Ike Humbert.

“Tf I could tell you that . . .” I said, and there was a silence again, until I broke it. ‘If I could tell you that, I probably would be able to tell you a great deal more. The fact is that it actually faded away into the air, as though it were nothing but a wisp of smoke or mist. I found myself pulling at the unresisting air. All of this you know, because you saw me at it. The rest also you know,” I said, glancing down at the drawn-up form of Augustin Arnold.

A shudder went through the group, and some of the strained, white faces turned away. Some one threw a table cloth over the figure—a stage hand, I think it was—the cloth was from the third act property and hid the figure and the face, and so it lay, an uncertain, shapeless blob of white in the middle of a fine drawing room set.