The explosion of hot air, which was the latest Los Angeles realty boom, covered the floor of a valley with bungalows, duplexes, Italian villas, and mortgages; it drove them up winding canyons and over summits and spewed them out across other valleys; it scattered residences up the sides of the Santa Monica Mountains, leaving many perched precariously, and isolated, upon hilltops. The architecture was varied–often beautiful, occasionally weird, sometimes awful–but the mortgages were all alike.

The home of Mr. Jephet Seegar overhung the steep escarpment of a hilltop and Hollywood. Its motif was an ornate Gothic doorway, reminiscent of the entrance to the Cathedral of Amiens; but here the pencil of the architect had wandered, as though overcome by the magnitude of what it had essayed, so that the ensemble was a none too subtle blending of Gothic, Spanish, French, Italian, and middle Iowan. The result was unique; yet in another respect the home of Jephet Seegar was still more unusual. It possessed no mortgage, for where mortgages crossed the path of rich, retired Jephet Seegar, bachelor, they discovered him in the role of mortgagee, never mortgagor.

Jephet, who had somehow managed to get rich in Kansas, was inordinately proud of his home, assuring his few intimates that there was not a place like it in the whole of his native state. It was ignorance, rather than modesty, that restrained him from including the rest of the world and the Pleiades. On fine, clear days, especially after a storm in winter, a magnificent city, filling a broad valley, might have thrilled the most sophisticated of observers from one of Jephet’s wrought iron Italian balconies, as it stretched from the high, white tower of the city hall down to the blue waters of the Pacific, with the peaceful, mysterious hills of Catalina looming just off shore and, sometimes, even far San Clemente in the distance. Or, by night, like a splendid glittering rug of a billion gleaming jewels spread in regal magnificence from Hollywood to the Baldwin Hills. But Jephet had no need to look so far afield for satisfying beauty when he could appease the artistic cravings of his soul with a Gothic entrance, a chateau tower, or a green tile bathroom with a red plush toilet seat.

However, we need not become unduly excited over Mr. Jephet Seegar or his culture. We shall catch but a single, fleeting glimpse of all that is mortal of him. We shall never hear him speak. But of the house and its other occupant we shall see more. The splendid Gothic entrance opens almost onto the cement pavement of the winding street that zig-zags down a precipitous canyon into a world-famous artery, where, on one of the corners, stands a little blue windmill, sign of a chain of bakeries whose identical windmills dot the city.

Now, as we return to the house on the hill, we have a long, winding climb that necessitates shifting into intermediate gear and remaining there until we pull up once more before the Gothic entrance. There is no sidewalk but there are sewers and ornamental lights and assessments. Between the pavement and the house is a narrow strip of lawn, with masses of shrubbery against the house and three tall, slender Italian cypress trees grouped at one side of the entrance, shading it from the light of the nearest ornamental street lamp, for it is night now.

No light shows from the interior of the house, nor is the porch lamp lighted. It is very quiet here. There are no other houses this far up the mountain. Listen! What is that? The tarpaper walls, covered with chicken wire and plaster, are exteriorly imposing; but they are far from sound-proof. From the second floor come sounds of voices raised in altercation and what might be the scuffling of feet upon a hardwood floor. This is followed by the banging of a door. Then silence.

A tall, lean man, past middle age, is fumbling with a key before a closed door. There is the sound of metal upon metal as the bolt slips into place. Then he withdraws the key and drops it into the left-hand pocket of his coat. For a moment he stands there listening, his ear close to the batten door. Then he turns away and tip-toes across the room.

“The old fool.” he mutters, “I warned him!”

The room he crosses is fairly large. It is furnished with a desk and easy chairs and might be called a study, but for the scarcity of books. There are heavy hangings at the two windows, and they are tightly drawn. A large fish, mounted on a wooden plaque, hangs upon one of the walls. There are several framed photographs of groups of men and of individuals. Some weapons are suspended from the picture moulding. It is evident that they are there for ornamental purposes only. It is a man’s room. One would almost know that Jephet Seegar would refer to it as The Den.

At the doorway the man switched off the light. The hallway outside was dark and he groped his way along it to the head of the stairs, which were faintly lighted by the rays of a small lamp burning in the reception hall below.

The first floor, to which he now descended, held, in addition to the small reception hall, the living room, dining room, and kitchen, with whatever closets, pass pantry, cupboards, and screened porch as are necessary appurtenances thereto. In the basement was his own room, a store room, and Jephet’s special pride–a large room equipped as an old-fashioned saloon.

Maddox did not descend below the first floor. Instead, he switched off the light in the reception hall and entered the living room, the windows of which, overlooking the street, were hidden by heavy hangings through which no light could penetrate.

Nervously, the man moved from window to window assuring himself that the locks were well fastened and that the hangings were tightly drawn together again. His movements were furtive and his step almost stealthy, as though he were constantly in fear that they might divulge his presence there to someone of whom he was afraid. Or was it that he moved thus silently lest he should miss some sound from the gloomy darkness of the floor above?

Having satisfied himself as to the window catches and the hangings, he sat down before a radio and turned the switch. At the far end of the dial he sought the short wave lengths, tuning the instrument to its full capacity. Then he waited. He sat on the edge of a chair, tense and expectant, as the initial low humming of the loud speaker increased in volume.

His grey hair appeared to have been recently neatly brushed, though at the back of the crown it was disheveled as though a hand had grasped it there. His black suit was shiny but neat. An observant person might have classified him as a high class servant, in which he would have been correct.

For ten years Maddox had served Mr. Jephet Seegar–half servant, half companion to the old man. He had cooked his meals and served them and, when they were alone, ordinarily had eaten at the same board with his master; he had pressed Jephet’s clothes and attended to the lighter duties of the housework (a woman came two days a week to give the place a general cleaning); his multifarious duties had been partly secretarial as well, looking after the filing of Jephet’s small correspondence, collecting rents and interest, and clipping coupons from bonds, which last gave him access to the old man’s safety deposit box.

And Jephet Seegar had been no mean master. Not only had Maddox’s wages been much higher than he could have hoped to receive in any other calling, but he had been the recipient of many gifts from his employer, and within the week he had discovered that he had been made a substantial beneficiary of Mr. Jephet Seegar’s last will and testament. This fact he had discovered not through the confidence of his master but while rummaging through Jephet’s private papers in the safety deposit box, for one of Maddox’s weaknesses was an inordinate curiosity. Another, which amounted almost to a vice, was avarice. Jephet had accused him of still having the first nickel he had ever made, and, though he may not have had the first one, it is safe to say that he had a large percentage of all of them.

Fear and suspicion being quite as well developed in him as curiosity and avarice, he had consistently refused to place his savings in a bank, with the result that he lived in a state of constant apprehension that the hiding place in which his hoard was concealed might be discovered by burglars. He had read of numerous instances in which people had been tortured into revealing the location of hidden wealth, and the very thought had brought beads of perspiration to his brow.

This fear obsessed him even now as he sat before the radio, the buzzing of which was being interrupted by an announcement which, however, came so faintly from the loud speaker that he could distinguish no word until, as the sound increased gradually, toward the conclusion he caught, “–a prowler there now. That is all. Berg.”

This eerie announcement served but to accentuate the man’s nervousness. He raised his head and listened intently. Were his thoughts upon the hoard hidden in the basement or upon what lay behind that locked door on the floor above? There was no sound but the droning of the radio. “But then,” he thought, “an experienced prowler would make no sound.”

Again the radio interrupted his soliloquies. This time it was louder and quite clear. “K.G.P.L. Los Angeles Police Department calling car one-one-two. Calling car one-twelve. Go to one-one-one-six West Tenth Street; eleven-sixteen West one-O Street; see man about barking dog. Calling car seven-two-W; go to thirty-seven thirty-nine South Hoover Street; three-seven-three-nine South Hoover, and see lady about bad boys. Cullen.”

Maddox almost relaxed. Barking dogs and bad boys held no terror for him. It was getting late. He really should go to bed; but the fascination of the police broadcasts held him. Tomorrow would be a bad day. He dreaded it. There would be telephone calls and people coming to inquire for Jephet Seegar, and Maddox would have to lie to them. He hated lies. Mrs. Blump would be coming again to finish the cleaning. By the second day it would be all right–at least he hoped so. Yes, by Friday he should have no reason to fear visitors; but what was he to do tomorrow about Mrs. Blump! She was new on the job; this was only her fourth week; and Maddox did not know her well enough to be sure that he could trust her.

“K.G.P.L. Los Angeles Police Department calling car one-one-four; car one-fourteen; go to the corner of Sixth and Alvarado; six street and Alvarado; a hit-and-run driver; they are holding him there. Calling car one-four; calling car fourteen; go to seventy-eight-thirty-two South San Pedro; seven-eight-three-two South San Pedro; see lady about quacking ducks. Calling all cars; calling all cars; hold-up on Cherokee near Sunset; a young man and woman in large dark colored sedan; license number unknown; drove west on Sunset; description: Number one: man, about five feet ten; smooth face; no hat; grey coat, white pants. Number two: woman, about five feet five; yellow hair; light colored dress. Calling car two-one-six; calling car two-sixteen; go to corner of Washington and Van Ness; Washington and Van Ness; investigate Chevrolet coupe; license number eight-x-ray-three-nine-seven-two. That is all. Berg.”

“Cherokee and Sunset,” repeated Maddox, mentally. “Drove west on Sunset.” He got up and crossed the room to a small cabinet from the drawer of which he took a large, blue revolver. “Drove west on Sunset,” he muttered as he returned to his chair before the radio. The feel of the weapon in his grasp imparted a certain sense of security. He relaxed and almost dozed beneath the soporific droning of the speaker. Even the occasional announcements in the monotonous monotones of the police broadcasters scarcely served to arouse him. Boys on roof throwing stones at pedestrians, newsboys playing with traffic signals, a drunk on Central Avenue, a disturbance someplace on Bunker Hill, a wild party in Hollywood were mildly interesting but far from exciting.

Maddox was almost asleep when the humming of gears aroused him. Instantly he was wide awake–alert. A car was coming up the hill in second. What was a car doing up here at that time of night? Of course, occasionally couples drove up for the view out across the lighted city or for other purposes that made the seclusion of this mountain top attractive; but, even so, Maddox was suspicious. Arising, he crossed the room and turned off the light; then he groped his way to one of the front windows, separated the hangings, and looked out.

Presently the car came in sight, grinding slowly up the grade. Maddox could see that it was a dark colored sedan and that there were two people in the front seat. The car drew directly into the curb in front of the house and stopped. Maddox’s hands, separating the curtains, were trembling.

A young man sitting in the driver’s seat of the parked car drew a bit of paper from a pocket of his coat and, leaning close to the dash light, scrutinized it carefully. “This must be the place,” he said, looking up at the house. “There can’t be two doors like that–not even in Hollywood.”

“Not a light in it,” whispered his companion.

“So much the better. If the lights are all out they are either away or asleep. Less chance of our being caught prowling around.”

“I’m nervous,” said the other; “It’s spooky up here.”

“Buck up,” said the young man. “It won’t take long. If you’re afraid, stay in the car.”

“I’m game. Let’s get through with it.”

As they got out of the car the light from a street lamp fell upon them, revealing a hatless young man in grey coat and white trousers. He was about five feet ten, and his companion, a young woman, was perhaps five inches shorter. She wore a pale lavender dress and had blond hair.

“Don’t make any noise,” he cautioned her in a whisper as he started toward the house.

They moved stealthily to the bottom of the three or four steps and ascended into the relative darkness of the interior of the entrance. Suddenly the young woman sneezed. She clapped a hand across her mouth and nose but not in time to suppress a second paroxysm of sneezing.

“Heavens!” she breathed, apparently horrified by what she had done. For a moment they stood in silence listening; then the young man withdrew a shiny object from one of his pockets. It might have been a nickel-plated revolver, but it was not. It was a flashlight. The instant that he pressed the switch upon it the porch lamp above them flooded the entry with sudden and unexpected light.

“Hell!” muttered the young man beneath his breath.

The girl caught her breath in a frightened gasp and turned as though to run. Then the door swung open, revealing a tall, grey haired man who covered them with a revolver. “Hold up your hands!” he commanded.

“Listen,” said the young man. “Let me explain.”

“Shut up and get your hands over your head,” snapped Maddox. “If you don’t, I’ll shoot.”

They did.

“Just let me explain,” insisted the young man.

“Keep still and come in here,” directed Maddox, “and keep those hands up.”

He closed the door behind them as they passed him and then he made them stand with their backs toward him while he searched them for weapons, taking away the flashlight.

“Please let the young lady go,” begged the young man. “You can keep me if you want to, but she hasn’t done anything, and–”

“Keep still and go up those stairs–and don’t make any noise!”

Slowly they ascended into the unrelieved gloom of the upper hallway, the muzzle of the revolver occasionally prodding the young man in the small of the back. Down the hall Maddox herded them into an open doorway.

“Get in there!” he ordered.

Obeying the menace of the revolver the couple crossed the threshold of the unlighted room. They heard the door close behind them and a key shooting the bolt of the lock, then footsteps, barely audible, diminishing until they faded into silence.

“What awful darkness,” whispered the girl. “There is not a ray of light. Don’t go away from me.” She extended her hand, gropingly, until she had found him. Then she crept close. “I am afraid.” she said. “What do you suppose he is going to do with us?”

“It looks as though we are in for it,” replied the man, “but yet I don’t see what they can do to us. We didn’t do anything.”

“What was that!” exclaimed the girl in a terrified whisper.

The sound of stertorous breathing broke the silence of the room, then a groan and again silence. The girl clutched the man more tightly. As he put an arm protectively about her he could feel her body trembling.

“I am so afraid!” she moaned. “It’s right here in this room with us. Oh, how horrible!”

“We must find a light,” said the man. “That old fool took my flashlamp away from me.”

Turning, he felt for the door that had closed behind them, one hand outstretched, the other arm about the figure of the girl. “It sure is black,” he whispered.

“I can feel the darkness,” said the girl. “It presses down on me like a blanket of black earth, as though I were buried alive.”

“I’ve found the door,” he said. “The switch should be right beside it.” He passed a hand up and down the wall beside the casing. “There!” he exclaimed. and simultaneously the room was flooded with light. “Whew! What a relief.”

As one they turned to scan the room, searching for the thing they dreaded seeing. “There is nothing here; he said, a note of relief in his voice.

“Look behind the desk,” she suggested, and as he started toward it she hung back, clinging tightly to him. “Oh, no, don’t!” she cried. “It might be there.”

A half smile touched the man’s lips. “I thought we wanted to find it,” he reminded her.

“Oh, no! No! I don’t want to see it.”

“But we must find out what it is,” he insisted. “I’ll look. You stay here.”

“Don’t leave me, please. I’ll go with you.”

His arm tightened about her, drawing her closer to him. “Don’t be afraid, please,” he begged. “I’m sure it’s nothing that can hurt you.”

“That’s why I’m afraid,” she admitted–“because maybe it can never hurt anyone again.”

They crossed to the desk. “Keep your eyes closed,” he said. “I’ll look.”

“I can’t help looking. It’s horrible. I have to look.”

“There’s nothing here,” he announced, when the floor behind the desk was visible to them.

“Oh, what a relief!” exclaimed the girl. Suddenly she screamed. “There it is again,” she cried. “Over there!” She pointed toward a closed door at the far side of the room.

“Come! We’ve got to find out what this means or we’ll both go cuckoo.” He crossed the room, the girl still clinging to him, and paused before the closed door, listening. From beyond came the sound of labored breathing, accompanied by a rasping gurgle. Instantly his memory envisioned a half forgotten scene–a man prone upon a sidewalk in the dark shadows of a city night. Blood was trickling from a bullet wound in his head. From his lips came the same sound that was issuing from behind that closed door.

“Look!” whispered the girl, pointing down at the floor where a trickle of red, coming from beneath the door, had formed a little pool on the oak flooring. Instinctively they shrank back. A single groan came from beyond that door of mystery, and then silence.

“This is serious, said the man. “It looks like murder.”

“What sort of a horrible place are we in?” whispered the girl. “Why did he make us come in? Why did he lock us up here? Is he going to–to do the same thing to us?”

The man had turned and was searching the room with his eyes. He saw the fish mounted on the plaque, the photographs, and the weapons. It all looked so prosaic and peaceful, so at variance with the suspicions that filled their minds, that even the lethal weapons, hanging upon the wall, appeared innocuous in the homely atmosphere of their surroundings. Yet behind that door was a grim mystery and downstairs a grey haired, forbidding stranger who held them in his power.

“Where are you going?” demanded the girl as her companion started to recross the room.

“I see something over there that I want. I’m going into that room and I don’t know what’s in there.” He drew an old cavalry saber from its scabbard, where it hung upon the wall. “There may not be anything in there that can harm us, but I’m not going to take any chances, with you along.”

“You’re not going into that room?” she demanded.

“I certainly am.” He had already returned to the door from beneath which oozed the significant trickle of red. “Stand back,” he told her, and grasping the saber firmly in his right hand he laid his left upon the door knob. Slowly he turned it and pulled, but the door did not open. “It’s locked,” he said, then he fell to examining the door. Like that upon the opposite side of the room, it was constructed of random widths of inch and three-quarters planks bolted to cross pieces at the top and bottom and to a diagonal brace which extended from one cross piece to the other. It is a popular door in Hollywood and Beverly Hills. With a good lock it is stronger than the wall in which it is set.

The man shook his head. “I couldn’t break that down in a week,” he said.

“I am glad,” said the girl.

“We’ve got to get out of this,” exclaimed the man. “Let’s have a look at the windows.”

There were two in the wall behind the desk. They were the only windows in the room. The couple crossed to one of them and drew aside the hangings. Below them spread the fairy vista of the city lights. The French window opened upon a tiny balcony, onto which they stepped, letting the hangings fall behind them. For a time they were silent, drinking in the night air.

“It is like coming into another world,” said the girl.

“A very small world from which there is no escape, except back into that room,” he replied, gazing ruefully down the sheer hillside to the concrete pavement shining in the street lights of the roadway a hundred feet below. “It looks as though we are trapped, all right.”

“We were looking for adventure tonight,” she reminded him. “Perhaps you remember.”

“Yes, I remember. We’ve had plenty since then, haven’t we. How long ago that seems!”

“Ages!”

“After tonight I shall feel as though we had known one another always. How long has it been, anyway?”

“Have you forgotten?”

“No, of course not. I wanted to see if you remembered.”

“Certainly I remember,” she said. “It will be a week tomorrow.”

“A wonderful week,” he said. “I have seen you four times–and look at the mess I’ve gotten you into already.”

“It wasn’t your fault.” she assured him. “Everything went wrong. Who could have foreseen anything like this? And that terrible old man! He must be a maniac.”

“A victim of dementia praecox, perhaps. Did you notice how strange his eyes looked?”

“They are the ones who are subject to homicidal mania, aren’t they?” she asked, shuddering a little. “I’ve been reading about them in a book of famous murderers. I wish I hadn’t, now.”

“Don’t think about it, please.” He laid his hand gently over hers where it rested on the rail of the balcony. He felt the tapered fingers beneath his flutter and thought that she was going to withdraw them. They stood thus in silence for a long minute. Then, gently, she raised her hand and turned it over so that the tender, warm palm nestled in his own. They did not speak. Sometimes there is no need for words–so eloquent are gestures.

From far below them, somewhere out of that vast network of city streets, rose faintly the weird wail of a police siren. Gradually it rose in volume as the car raced west on Sunset Boulevard. Presently they caught occasional glimpses of its red spotlight as it flashed by open spaces in the traffic. Like the hopeless plaint of a lost soul, its raucous screech cleft the night, inducing within the breasts of the couple marooned upon the little balcony something akin to a thrill of terror.

“It is turning up this road,” said the man.

“Why is it coming this way?” she asked. “Who could have sent for it?”

“Perhaps it is not coming for us,” he said. “There are other houses in the hills. He wouldn’t have called the police.”

“Maybe we were followed,” she suggested.

“I think not. Look at them take those curves!”

They were leaning over the balustrade watching the police car as it flashed into view on the visible stretches of the winding canyon road below them–a red-eyed demon of the night, appearing and disappearing as it roared its shrieking way around the innumerable curves and shoulders of the ascent. The last stretch of the road, as it approached the front of the house, was not visible from the balcony at the rear, on which they stood. With an expiring wail the siren suddenly went dumb. The car drew into the curb and three officers leaped out. Two of them walked briskly toward the Gothic entrance, the other remained by the car.

Maddox, peeking between the hangings at a living room window, had seen the car drive up and the officers alight. As he went to the door to admit them he was visibly perturbed. “I guess I was a fool,” he muttered. “I shouldn’t have called them. They may want to search the house. But why should they? Suppose they do–and find him!” His hand was trembling as he turned the knob and opened the door.

“You the party that reported burglars?” asked one of the officers.

“Hold-ups,” corrected Maddox.

“Which way did they go?”

“They didn’t go,” explained Maddox. “I captured them.”

“Where are they?”

“Upstairs–locked in a back room. Come with me.”

 (Continued in Part 2 at ERBzine 8057)