Under the desert stars : a novel

Front matter

Copyright N°_ _

QOPVZ

COPYRIGHT DEPOSIT.

Contents

CHAPTER PAGE

I. The Hypnotic Victim. i

II. At the Morgue.23

Chapter I

HE early spring sun was riding low in the heavens, going westward to seek its rest. The haze of twilight was creeping in upon the city from across the bay and the canyon-like streets of lower New York were already steeped in shadow.

Above the city rose the hum of industry and from the rivers the saucy whistles of tugboats, with their heavy laden barges, were telling those who would listen that they, too, were doing their bit.

But all this was lost to the girl standing at the promenade rail of the Queensborough Bridge, that massive structure spanning the East River, linking Brooklyn with New York. The girl, beautiful to an extreme, both in face and form, stood clutching the railing with a convulsive grip. Her eyes were set on something far in the distance and so far as the passersby were concerned, she was in another world.

Curious but hurried glances were aimed at her, but that was all. New Yorkers are always in a hurry and a passing glance satisfies the questions that arise in the minds of most of them.

Carl Lohman, however, was different. His pro¬ fession had taught him to observe. So it was nat¬ ural that he, noticing the strained attitude of the girl, should give more than a casual glance. Her handkerchief had fallen at her feet and he stooped down to restore it. His action elicited the slightest notice from her, so he ventured to remark: “I beg your pardon, Miss, but I believe this is yours.”

At this, the girl slightly turned her head to see who had spoken to her. Carl noticed, then, the strange look in her eyes. The fixed stare in them seemed to be seeking something beyond the vision of mortal ken. What dream, what strange medita¬ tion had so rudely been broken into?

Mechanically she took one hand from the rail and accepted the dainty square of lace which Carl ex¬ tended to hen A bow, so slight as to be scarcely perceptible was her only reply. This was but the outward show. Inwardly she felt relieved to some extent. A glance told her that this man, with his intellectual countenance and commanding presence, was no ordinary flirt. Then, without a word, she walked away.

Carl, believing that the handkerchief had been dropped with a purpose and curious to know more about the fascinating girl, hurried to her side and endeavored to start a conversation.

“Rather a warm day, is it not?”

No answer being given he continued: “Really tropical for this time of year.”

Again no response. Carl realized that he had been mistaken. She had not intended to start a flirtation. He looked at her closely. Yes, that was it. She was nervous and trembling as from some all-powerful emotion. He would help her if he could.

“Madam, you are ill. May I be of some assist¬ ance?” and he extended his arm for support.

“Thank you, but I am all right,” was the rather testy retort.

“You are a stranger here, are you not?”

The girl looked at him carefully, and hesitatingly inquired, “Why do you ask? Simply because I did not reply to your questions.”

“No, not that,” came from Carl; then, “Our American girls, or rather I should say, New York girls, resent being addressed by a stranger, even though he should offer aid when needed.”

“Aid was not and is not now required. And to answer your questions, I am a stranger here,” came swiftly.

“So I thought,” said he, flicking the ashes from his cigarette.

“What made you think so?” parried the other, looking at him cautiously from under her heavy lashes.

“Oh, because. Well, you see women of your type and eyes are strange here. I have lived here long enough to learn that.”

“Strange?” she asked, with a forced smile and shrugging shoulders.

“Yes. Beautifully strange.”

“Do you really think so?” She was beginning to feel at ease.

“Yes. And as for being a stranger, I would say you are a European and have not been in this coun¬ try very long. At any rate the fads of the moment have had no effect upon your taste.”

“Thank you,” she returned with a smile.

“Just here on a visit, if I dare ask?”

Their eyes met. Each was trying to fathom the mind of the other. For a minute she was silent, then in a decisive tone of voice she replied, “You are right. I arrived here a week ago from abroad.”

“From where—abroad?”

“That is asking questions.” She was fencing for time.

“Oh, come on.”

“What's that?” frowning.

“You misunderstand me. I mean tell me where you came from. England?”

“Do I look English?”

“No. Not at all.” Admiring her gift of quick and thoughtful repartee, he supplemented, “No, you are neither English nor French.”

“But England and France are not the only coun¬ tries, although they like to think so when they do not require the help of other countries,” she answered sarcastically.

Their walk had by this time brought them to the bridge terminal.

“Would you mind calling a taxi?” she asked.

“With pleasure,” he replied, and called a passing car.

It was with a heart that sank at the answer, that he asked, at the parting, “May I see you again?”

A smile curved her exquisitely carven lips and seemed to brighten her face and lend added luster to her eyes as she slowly shook her head in the negative.

Carl stepped forward to help her into the taxi, but before he could realize it, she had gathered her skirts, revealing a dainty pair of ankles and entered the machine. A moment later the door was closed and the car sped away, leaving Carl standing at the curb, watching it with charmed eyes.

Hat still in hand, and entirely oblivious of the curious eyes of those who had witnessed the incident, he pondered over her lithe and graceful form, the large fathomless eyes and the subtle charm of her musical voice. But his heart would have pulsed with added vigor had he heard, as the taxi started, her scarcely audible “Auf Wiedersehen.”

A final look at the parting car gave him a pleasing view of her smiling face, as she gave him a gracious nod. He bowed and waved his hand in return, mur¬ muring half aloud, “Some girl!”

Suddenly his musing was rudely broken into by the passing of a truck and the growled warning from its driver to get away from the curb. Brought thus back to the stern world of reality and the common¬ place, he gave his cane a vicious twirl and muttered beneath his breath, “Damn it! That’s what I call hard luck”—throwing away his cigarette.

Having given vent to this expletive, he turned and went his way, seeing nothing but that beautiful smil¬ ing face which was the center and pivot of his con¬ fused mind.

At the Claza, Sana, for that was the name of this strange girl, alighted from the taxi, and after pay¬ ing and dismissing the driver, stepped quickly into the hotel.

She took the elevator to the eighth floor. But a change had come over her. Her face was pale and she was visibly perturbed, as she went down the corridor.

Her hand sought a door knob, and as she hesi¬ tated for an instance, her perturbation seemed to leave her. She entered the room without knocking and as she did so, a middle aged man, Frangois de Rochelle, looked up in surprise and forced a thin smile of welcome to his lips.

His words of greeting, “Sana, you are back again,” must have rung in his own ears with their true bluntness, so he quickly added, “So soon, mon cherie?”

He arose from his chair and walking over to Sana, took her face tenderly in his hands and re¬ marked, rather peevishly, “You are pale, joujou. Did not the weather agree with you? I thought the fresh air blowing over the bridge would do you good. Did you not go there?”

The contented smile faded from Sana’s face and was replaced by one of pitiful sadness as she queried blankly, “Where?”

The far-off stare in the girl’s eyes and her strange attitude gave de Rochelle food for thought that was not of the most pleasant kind.

With a scarcely conscious gesture Sana removed her hat and mechanically walked to the couch where she sat down, to look with a vacant gaze out of the window over Central Park. De Rochelle, pushing aside some papers, sought a seat next to her, and placing his arm about her shoulder, asked in a voice that bespoke his own anxiety, “What is it, 4no»-cherie? What troubles you today? Come, let me feel your pulse.”

She laughed lightly, although not with content¬ ment, as his hand encircled her wrist and he placed his ear upon her chest, in an effort to gauge the pul¬ sations of her heart.

For a few moments there was a silence between them. Then de Rochelle, raising his head and look¬ ing straight into her eyes, said, “There is nothing the matter with you.” Then kissing her, he whis¬ pered, “And your lips are just as sweet as ever.”

Sana, slightly bored, freed herself gently from his arms, and as she did so, murmured “Oh, it is nothing.” Throwing her head backward, she added, “I do not feel very well, but it is beyond me to say what it is.”

A nameless fear had suddenly arisen within her heart. Yes, that was it. The fear of speaking to him of the incident on the bridge. It would prob¬ ably cause him worry and it would rob her of the delicious dreams she would weave about the man who was already enthroned in the most secret re¬ cesses of her heart.

So saying no more she rose from the couch, and left the apartment to go to her own room, leav¬ ing de Rochelle alone, in consternation and uneasy contemplation.

When she reached her room, Sana threw herself upon the bed, burying her face in the pillows. Pres¬ ently, however, she rose to a sitting posture, and tangled her fingers madly in her hair, asking herself unanswerable questions.

“Why should I want to commit suicide? Does not Francois love me, and do I not love him with all my heart? Putting myself away in such a cowardly manner—would he ever get over it? And then, too, what of my dear mother?”

Having tortured her mind in that fashion, she slipped from the bed and approaching the dresser, she rested her hands heavily upon an open drawer and glared into the mirror. With piercing eyes she gazed at herself and gradually a smile came to her face and a new light gleamed in her eyes.

“Beautifully strange—yes, he was right. I am too young to die. And I am not going to.”

IO

With a determination bom of a new and greater hope, she threw her head back and her long, lustrous hair, thus shaken loose, unrolled its dark coils down over her shoulders and far below her waistline. Her clothes seemed too tight, so she loosened them, stripping off her outer garment. There was some¬ thing sirenic about her beauty as she stood there with wild-hanging hair, her breasts heaving with ex¬ citement. She commenced to rearrange her dishev¬ eled hair, and a smile crept to her lips as she ad¬ mired the reflection in the glass. She was indeed well aware of her fascinating and dangerous beauty.

And well she might be. The well-rounded neck, the soft, graciously curved and perfectly propor¬ tioned shoulders and arms, the slight tan of the skin, the great magic eyes and the pretty face with its lofty brow, surmounted by waves of dark hair, gave her the positive stamp of a strange and unique beauty: a type one so seldom finds to admire. It was not artificial, nor was it yet exotic—reality was its only expression.

Standing before the glass, she unconsciously made a few gestures and movements which held in them a captivating influence when wielded by one who was naturally so comely. Unconsciously, too, she took inventory of her personal charm. It was her woman’s instinct that told her that all men would be her willing slaves, should such a thing be her desire. But it was not. Frangois was her first lover, and she wanted him to be the only one. Everything was to be for him and him alone.

Unfortunately, most women after they secure the man for whom they have angled do not know how to hold their catch. They neglect the very things that first drew the man to them, they forget their art in a feeling of possession and security. And then they wonder why there are so many divorces.

Sana, who was but nineteen, was well versed in feminine artfulness and had already mastered all its varied forms and gestures. Her inheritance from her mother, and the refinement and culture she had acquired, gave her both finesse and charm in addi¬ tion to her amazing loveliness.

Facing the glass, she shook her head and said to herself, “To destroy myself ? Never! Gypsy blood would not sanction that.”

Sana hastily dressed herself and without advising de Rochelle of her movements, left the hotel and sought a friend of hers who lived on 57th Street.

This was a Mrs. O’Brien, a woman, worldly wise and one who had married young and often. Sana had met her on the steamer “George Washington,’’ on her way from Cherbourg to New York. Mrs. O’Brien was returning from her latest honeymoon, and the chance meeting between the two had ripened into a most intimate friendship. Regardless of what gossip may have said about her, Mrs. O’Brien was real in every sense of the word.

It was to her, therefore, that Sana turned in her trouble. Mrs. O’Brien listened to Sana’s tale with a motherly interest, and explaining in part her in¬ tentions, she took Sana to the office of the famous Dr. White, on the same block.

The doctor, an elderly and affable gentleman, had been in New York for many years, and the fame that had preceded him from Europe, where he had been a professor at the University of Heidelberg, increased with his years of practice in America.

He and Mrs. O’Brien were well acquainted and with a cheery “Good evening” he led the two women from the reception room, into his office, which was splendidly furnished and embellished with numerous books, charts and artistic curiosities. There was nothing about the place to give the visitor the chill that generally comes on entering a doctor’s office. Instead the room seemed to be pervaded with an atmosphere of congenial warmth.

The three seated themselves preparatory to the consultation. Sana broke the momentary silence by speaking clearly and calmly.

“My fiance, Francois de Rochelle, for whom I also work as secretary, induces me daily to walk across the bridge to get fresh air. Whenever I do so I always feel a great desire to jump over the rail and drown myself in the waters below. This sensa¬ tion increases, like my love for him, as the days go by. Why it is, I do not know. I love my fiance dearly and he returns my love with equal fervor. We intend to be married immediately upon our re¬ turn to Paris. I do not wish Frangois to be worried over me, and for that reason I have never confided in him my desire to commit suicide. Neither have I mentioned to him my intention to consult a doctor.”

She paused, but Dr. White said only “Yes, go on.”

“Once in a while, of an evening, as a matter of amusement Francois hypnotizes me. It always makes me feel much better. But the following day, when I walk across the bridge, the horrible impulse to do away with myself, forces itself upon me. Day by day the desire increases in intensity. I should have killed myself today if it had not been for a man who spoke to me just as I was about to leap over the rail. Can you tell me what the trouble is, doctor?”

Dr. White was deep in thought. Fie had often practised the subtle art of hypnotism as an aid to his medical work. He knew, therefore, the sinister truth that lay behind Sana’s words.

H

Rousing himself at her question, he looked at Sana closely and asked, “Will you consent to enter the hypnotic state under my influence?”

Sana recalled to mind some of the risque situ¬ ations she had found herself in upon walking from the trances, induced by her lover. The memories caused her to pause an instance, then raising her hands she cried, “No, no!”

The doctor seemed to comprehend the thoughts that were surging through her mind, and he inter¬ rupted with, “You need have no fear. Your friend, Mrs. O’Brien is here and the experiment may be of benefit to both you and your fiance.”

Her reply to the man’s kindly remonstration showed how easily he had dispelled her fears.

“Yes, perhaps it will be better so.”

Sana reclined restfully back within the cushioned chair and the doctor bent over her. With his hands he made a few passes before her face, with a steady look of intensity he performed the preliminaries of the hypnotist. His piercing glance held her gaze. His eyes seemed fairly to devour hers. Soon her eyes dimmed and slowly commenced to close. Her mind was giving way to his dominating will. Slowly the girl’s eyes closed entirely, the muscles of her body relaxed and her mind sought another plane.

i5

Dr. White straightened up and turning to Mrs. O’Brien said softly, “She is gone.”

The doctor drew his chair close to and directly in front of Sana. In a clear voice that seemed more to make itself felt rather than heard, he propounded his queries.

“What does your fiance, Francois de Rochelle, do when you are under his hypnotic influence?”

Slowly came the answer, “He teaches me some dance steps and also makes love to me.”

“Do you really love him?”

“Well, I would do anything to please him, but-”

“But what?”

“I did not love him before we were engaged.”

“How did that happen?”

No answer forthcoming, Dr. White commanded sharply, “Come, come, answer me.”

Sana responded with “I did not care for him enough. One evening while at dinner with him in a private dining-room of a famous Parisian restau¬ rant he hypnotized me, and directed me to love him and prepare for our marriage. From then on I be¬ gan to love him, and when he was sure of my affec¬ tion he disclosed to me the secret of why I loved him. But I did not mind, for my love was already deep rooted.”

i6

“Are you wealthy? Did you inherit much money?”

“No. Just a few thousands.”

“Is your life insured?”

“Who will get this money in case you die?”

“Francois.”

“Is de Rochelle’s life insured likewise?”

Then like a bolt of lightning came the question, “Did de Rochelle ever direct you to commit suicide by leaping from the Queensborough Bridge?”

Sana shivered slightly. Her entire body seemed to shrink as she reached forth her arms and groped blindly in the empty air.

“Answer me!” The doctor fairly hissed the words.

In a tone scarce above a whisper came the de¬ layed reply, “Frangois forbade me to speak on this subject, should I ever be in a trance induced by any other than himself. I will not—I cannot answer that question. I will not!”

“Answer me. Did Frangois direct you to commit suicide? I demand an answer.”

“I refuse to speak of this matter.”

Finding himself powerless to draw from that un¬ conscious mind the answer he had hoped to get, Dr.

White turned to Mrs. O’Brien, his face but thinly veiling the disappointment he felt.

“Say nothing of this latter question to the girl,” he cautioned, “it would only serve to distract her.”

He turned to the girl, and once more making a pass before her eyes, directed, “Wake up.”

Sana opened her eyes, rose to an upright position and slowly gazed blankly about her. Then recalling where she was and for what purpose she had come, a more tranquil look crept into her eyes.

After Sana had recovered herself, Dr. White re¬ quested that she and Mrs. O’Brien call the follow¬ ing day. To this they readily consented and the ap¬ pointment was made.

After Mrs. O’Brien and the girl had left the office, Doctor White sank into a chair, muttering “Strange—very strange.”

For a long time he sat there, with his head bowed in deep thought. Suddenly, he stood up, saying halfaloud, “Professor Grant. That’s the man for this.”

Going to his telephone he called up the profes¬ sor’s home.

“Hello, Grant. This is White. Can you possibly be at my office tomorrow noon? I wish you would come. I have a most interesting case on my hands— most interesting.” A pause, then, “You will? Fine. I knew I could rely upon you. At noon, sharp.”

The following day Sana and Mrs. O’Brien went to the doctor’s office. He and Prof. Grant were waiting for them.

Dr. White introduced Prof. Grant, adding for Sana’s benefit, “Prof. Grant can be trusted. I am sure he will be able to help you. Just do as he asks, and everything will come out all right.”

Sana smiled pleasantly at Prof. Grant, who taking her by the hand said, “I shall put you under a hyp¬ notic spell, and while under its influence you must answer each and every question I put to you. It is very important and necessary that you do so, for your own benefit. A cure cannot be effected until you have spoken as you are bidden. Remember that.”

“I shall do as you say. Yes, I will. I want to be cured for the sake of Frangois.”

Little did she dream what the outcome would be. Sana, of course, knew nothing of the diabolical schemes of de Rochelle. The victim of hypnotic in¬ fluence can never recall to mind, while conscious, what took place during a trance.

Prof. Grant was a powerfully built man, with a heavy black beard and a pair of black eyes that seemed to seek the innermost recesses of the soul.

Taking Sana’s wrist he gazed into her eyes with a stare that ever increased in piercing power and concentration. At first her glance met his frankly, but within a fleeting moment of time, before she could realize what was happening, Sana closed her eyes, and with relaxing muscles sank back in her chair—totally under the magic spell woven by those piercing eyes.

Grant came to the point quickly, with “Tell me. Did your fiance, Frangois de Rochelle, direct you to commit suicide while under his influence? What was the purpose? Tell me.”

Sana hesitated.

Grant fairly shouted, “Answer me. I command it!”

Slowly the words came, barely audible to the eager listeners.

“Yes, each time that he hypnotized me he directed and commanded me to drown myself by leaping from the bridge into the river. When I was not under his power, he induced me to walk every day across the bridge. He told me it would do me good to get the air. While in a trance, he also forbade me to ever mention to him, while in a normal state, of my desire to drown myself. He impressed upon me, also, that should I ever be under the hypnotic influence of another and be questioned regarding this, I was to refuse to answer.”

“Did he ever intimate his purpose in wanting you to kill yourself?”

“One night he laughed, so I recall, saying that he would then have plenty of money and could re¬ turn to France to marry his schoolday sweetheart.”

“Are you sure of that?” demanded Grant.

“Yes. He even told me her name. I knew her well. Her name is Edith Durex.”

“Ah! Tell me, how often and for how long has he been hypnotizing you?”

“Every evening last week.”

“Did you intend carrying out his demands?”

“Yes. I would do anything for Francois. Only yesterday was I prevented from doing so by a stran¬ ger. But I will do it as soon as I get the chance. The feeling grows stronger within me every time I cross the bridge. And something makes me go to the bridge each day.”

As Sana gave voice to these strange remarks, Mrs. O'Brien could hardly suppress her exclamation “My God!”

Grant and White stepped aside and held earnest conversation for a moment. Grant spoke decisively, “The secret is out, and we would be parties to the crime if we did not take steps to prevent the act. The girl cannot be allowed to return to de Rochelle.

Suppose you ask Mrs. O’Brien to take care of her for a few days?”

“Yes, I think that would be best,” and Dr. White stepped over to Mrs. O’Brien, with the question, “Do you think you could take your friend to your home and keep her for a few days? It would be the means of helping her out of her trouble.”

Mrs. O’Brien, who was nearly overcome with pity for Sana, instantly consented, so eager was she to do something.

“Fine,” from White, giving Grant a slight nod to indicate that his request had been favorably met.

It was then that Prof. Grant, with a smile on his face, stepped to the side of the insensible girl. His voice seemed to ring doubly deep and clear, “From now on you will never again be possessed of that desire to commit suicide. You are forever free.”

Taking again her right wrist, he softly said, “It is all right, madam,” and with a start Sana returned to consciousness. The happy smile upon her face told better than words her relief.

As they were about to leave Dr. White stepped to Sana’s side and said gently, “Miss Sana, please ac¬ company Mrs. O’Brien to her home. If you wish to go to the hotel you may do so, but not until after six o’clock. Do you understand?”

Sana nodded agreeably and assisted by Mrs. O’Brien she left the two men to their thoughts.

Grant broke the silence. They had been silently thinking of some plan to follow.

“A letter will do the trick. We shall put the fear of the Almighty in that rascal’s heart.”

“All right. Let’s get busy. No time can be lost in dealing with him.”

The letter was written immediately and dis¬ patched to the hotel by messenger.

One can only imagine the thoughts that surged through de Rochelle’s head when he read the following:

M. Francois de Rochelle Hotel Claza New York, N. Y.

Dear Sir:

Your secretary, Miss Sana, attempted to jump from the Queensborough Bridge to drown herself, as directed and demanded of her, while under your hypnotic influence, so that you could collect the $50,- 000 insurance and marry your old time sweetheart.

We advise you to leave this city before five o’clock this evening, as by six o’clock we shall have reported the case to the District Attorney.

Yours truly,

H. Grant,

Robt. E. White.

Chapter II

T HE tiny hands of the ormulu clock upon the mantel told Sana’s anxious heart that it was a quarter to six.

With a strange presentiment of coming evil that defied analysis and strongly against the wishes of her hostess, Sana left the house and hurried to the hotel.

Reaching de Rochelle’s suite she rapped at the door. No answer came. A second rapping proved as futile as the first.

“He is out,” murmured the girl as she sought her own room. She wanted to rest, but could not. For fully half an hour she paced the floor, a dreadful op¬ pression as of some impending catastrophe weigh¬ ing down upon her. She could not shake it off. The very silence of the room seemed to creep into her heart and dull her mind.

Once more she crossed the corridor to de Ro¬ chelle’s rooms. This time she gave the door a re¬ sounding knock. But still no response. Gently, almost fearfully, she tried the door. It was un¬ locked, so she entered the room.

A strange sight met her eyes. Disorder was everywhere. The little writing table, usually so neat and well ordered, was a confusion of jumbled papers and letters. Signs of a hasty departure were everywhere.

Sana, however, took it only to mean that some business interest had called de Rochelle away in a hurry. Somewhat relieved Sana picked up a book and going over to the deeply cushioned divan, sat down to beguile away the time pending his return. But her mind was in a turmoil and she could not concentrate on her reading.

Nervously she let the minutes creep past. At last she could stand the strain no longer. Taking the phone she called the desk clerk and had him page de Rochelle. It was of no avail. Again she tried it, but still the missing man was not to be found.

Beside herself with fear Sana called up Dr. White, but he assured her that everything was all right and that no doubt she would hear from de Rochelle later on. She tried to reason with herself that there was nothing to fear, but as the hours went by, each seemingly longer than the one before, she grew so restless that her anxiety could not be calmed.

She could wait no longer in that lonely room, so about ten o’clock she hurried over to see Mrs. O’Brien. To her she related her fears, but she could do nothing to comfort her or offer any solu¬ tion. Alarmed at Sana’s state of mind Mrs. O’Brien called up Dr. White.