“IT WAS ABOUT ELEVEN O’CLOCK in the morning, mid October, with the sun not shining and a look of hard wet rain in the clearness of the foothills. I was wearing my powder-blue suit, with dark blue shirt, tie and display handkerchief, black brogues, black wool socks with dark blue clocks on them. I was neat, clean, shaved and sober, and I didn’t care who knew it. I was everything the well-dressed private detective ought to be. I was calling on four million dollars.
“The main hallway of the Sternwood place was two stories high. Over the entrance doors, which would have let in a troop of Indian elephants, there was a broad stained-glass panel showing a knight in dark armor rescuing a lady who was tied to a tree and didn’t have any clothes on but some very long and convenient hair. The knight had pushed the visor of his helmet back to be sociable, and he was fiddling with the knots on the ropes that tied the lady to the tree and not getting anywhere. I stood there and thought that if I lived in the house, I would sooner or later have to climb up there and help him. He didn’t seem to be really trying.
“There were french doors at the back of the hall, beyond them a wide sweep of emerald grass to a white garage, in front of which a slim dark young chauffeur in shiny black leggings was dusting a maroon Packard convertible. Beyond the garage were some decorative trees trimmed as carefully as poodle dogs. Beyond them a large green house with a domed roof. Then more trees and beyond everything the solid, uneven, comfortable line of the foothills.” (Raymond Chandler, The Big Sleep.)
Everything about the place seemed to have been here and unchanged since the beginning of time–from the foothills to the landscaping to the buildings, and even to the butler who pushed open the doors for me before I could ring the bell. His stony face didn’t move as he spoke, and I peeked around the corner to find the ventriloquist.
“You must be Mr. Tropolitan,” said his voice. His lips lay uselessly on his mouth.
“Yes.” I handed him my card: “R.E. Tropolitan, Private Detective.”
“This way, sir,” the voice directed.
He led me to a velvet-lined sitting room upholstered in colors that ranged from reddish maroon to maroonish red and everything in between. Stoneface pointed to a maroon chair and glided out of the room.
Mr. Sternwood’s taste in decoration was positively medieval. In one corner was a polished suit of armor holding a pike that reached to eight feet. In the opposite corner was another suit holding a long sword. The large painting above the mantle was done in the style still favored by elementary students—stiff human figures, sharp colors and no perspective whatsoever. The knight attacking the castle in the picture was as tall as the battlements. The damsel in the corner stared back at me with her wide, unblinking eyes.
When my own eyes began to burn I closed them and sank back in the chair. I hadn’t had a drink all morning, and I was beginning to feel it. Just then, I heard Sternwood’s voice, my pulse kicked into high gear, and I shot up as stiffly as one of those suits of armor.
“Mr. Tropolitan,” he thundered, “thank you for coming so quickly.”
“There’s no need to thank me,” I said. “It is my job to serve.” What I didn’t say was that I was damn pleased to have an opportunity to get my hands on some of his four million.
“We have a problem here at Sternwood Manor.” I hadn’t supposed he’d be calling a private detective if his arse were smelling like roses.
“I am afraid someone is after my daughter.”
In spite of my sobriety, my eyebrows immediately leapt to attention. I quickly tried to estimate how old his daughter might be, perhaps old enough to know a thing or two about the world. She was surely rich, but was she beautiful?
“Please explain, sir.”
“Every night for the past week she has run screaming from her room, and has told us someone was standing by her bed. But when the servants looked in on her, they could find no trace of anyone.” Sternwood paused and gave me a look that told me he was genuinely concerned for his daughter’s safety. “Nor have they found any trace of a break in.”
“Sounds like an inside job. Do you trust your staff?”
“Implicitly. Most of them have been at Sternwood Manor for generations.”
“And this has been happening every night?”
“Yes.”
I paced toward the suit with the pike. I stared up its gleaming height. I then turned on my heel and strode toward the other suit, looking into his visor for a plan.
“Mr. Tropolitan?”
I walked toward Mr. Sternwood and leaned in close. “I will stay here tonight,” I whispered. “Do not inform any of your staff. If you give me a key, I will pretend to leave, and then come back and hide myself near your daughter’s room.”
Sternwood cocked his head at me. I fiddled with my tie, knowing that the old boy was assessing my character. Could I be trusted with a key to the manor?
I could feel the sweat pooling at the base of my spine before he finally said, “Would you like to see her room now?”
Elizabeth Sternwood bore the type of innocence that made a man want to tutor her in ways that would put Aristotle to shame. A few light freckles dappled her little nose. Delicate strands of white-blond hair cascaded around her shoulders. Her delicate mouth quivered like a country mouse in Manhattan.
“Elizabeth,” said her father, “tell Mr. Tropolitan what you have seen.”
I steeled myself for her words. If her voice matched her face, I would certainly evaporate into a pool of sweat.
“I awake from a dead sleep,” she said, and I could feel myself wilting as her voice wafted onto my eardrums, “and I feel as if someone is in the room with me. There is complete silence, but I just know someone is there.
“At first I can see no one, but after a while, she’s at the foot of my bed or sitting at my vanity or peering out the window.”
“Uh…who…who is?”
“A woman. At least her body is a woman’s. She is always turned away from me, but then when I catch sight of her, she turns to me and her face is hideous, as if she has been terribly burned.
“That’s when I run. Her face drives me out into the hallway. I’ve tried to speak to her, but the fear is too much. I run away screaming.”
The blood has drained from Miss Sternwood’s already pale face, and her entire body is trembling. A lesser man than I would have broken down, taken her into his arms and held her tightly. I kept my composure, however, and simply melted further into the floor.
“Do you recognize the woman?”
“There is something familiar about her, but I don’t know what it is.”
“And this has happened every night?”
“For about two weeks, yes.”
I looked into her blue eyes as deeply as I dared, and said, “Miss Sternwood, I will be here tonight, and if the woman returns, I’ll take care of everything. You will be safe.”
She nodded, but then added, “But she has never harmed me, only given me a terrible fright.”
“I’ll get to the bottom of this,” I said with more confidence than I actually owned.
As soon as the lights began to dim within the manor, I crept across the lawn beneath a dark sky. The last sliver of moon gave me just enough light to keep myself upright.
As I reached the entrance doors, a stray shaft of moonlight glinted off the visor of the stained glass knight who continued his unsuccessful attempt to rescue the long-haired maiden. The sudden flash spooked me, and I dropped the key. It clattered on the marble.
Key in hand again, I slowly unlocked the great doors and pushed them open just wide enough to sneak inside. My feet padded on the entryway rug while I tried to remember the location of every vase, suit of armor and other trinket in the place. My brilliant plan to catch the servant responsible for the vile trickery aimed at Miss Sternwood could not be ruined the sound of a vase shattering into pieces.
I had finally reached the wing in which Miss Sternwood’s room was located, and up ahead, near the far end of the hallway, I saw movement. The movement was slow and relaxed, so I hoped the culprit had not been alerted to my presence. I stopped and stared into the near darkness, but no longer saw anyone. There was dead silence, but I knew someone was there with me.
Yet, after several minutes during which I could neither see nor hear anything unusual, I stepped forward again toward Miss Sternwood’s room. My strategy was to hide myself near her door to catch anyone who might be entering—or leaving.
I found a comfortable spot about ten yards from her door, and crouched down next to a large wooden chest, covered with stags painted in the same awkward medieval style Sternwood favored. I stared at the door, behind which lay the sweet Miss Sternwood, silken skin sleeping beneath silken sheets, no doubt.
I watched for more than an hour. Though my legs became stiff, and my knees locked tight, I managed, to my shame, to fall asleep. The first thing I heard was a shrieking scream so piercing I felt the floor rumble.
I stumbled to my feet and hobbled to the door. In a flash of white, Miss Sternwood bolted past me, showering me with the delightful scent of her young flesh as she passed. Despite my wish to follow her, I strode through the door.
I saw nothing. I looked from corner to corner, under the bed and behind furniture. No one was in the room except R. E. Tropolitan, Private Detective. I checked the windows and door to the balcony. All were locked tight.
And then…how should I describe it? I felt that I was not the only one in the room. Someone else was there. I spun around and saw no one. I backed myself against a wall, and my head turned as if on a swivel.
There she was. A woman with long hair stood by the window, her back to me. I began to walk toward her, steadying myself for the mask that had frightened young Elizabeth.
But it was not a mask.
White eyes seemed to burn from within deep sockets. The flesh was cracked and oozing, almost as if burned by fire, or rotting. She had no lips, and gumless teeth were thrust forward like broken pillars.
I didn’t stick around to make small talk. Before I was aware of it, my feet had raced me out of the room at high speed, but not before they slammed my face into the open door. I instinctively ran toward some lights at the end of the hall. Miss Sternwood’s screams had brought the servants out with candles. An older woman cradled the girl, who still shook.
Sternwood himself came down the hall in his robe. The servants gave him a wide berth as he strode through.
“Did you catch the beast?” he thundered.
I quickly considered the best course of action. I decided upon a straightforward lie.
“Sir, she got away, just escaped my grasp. I doubt that she’ll be back since she has seen me, but I am willing to remain for as long as necessary to ensure that your daughter is safe.”
He glared at me as if I were the one who had turned his peach of a daughter into a blubbering mass of cobbler. “She had better not be back.”
By noon I had cleaned up and was on my way to see a woman who might have some answers for me. I was convinced I had seen something unnatural at Sternwood Manor. It was not only that the face was so disconcertingly ugly, but that my body reacted so quickly. I had no control over my movements as I ran out of the room. And just like Miss Sternwood, I, too, saw something familiar about the woman, but I wasn’t sure what it was.
Miss Scarlet was a former school teacher who discovered hidden talents one summer as she vacationed in England. At one time we were something of an item, but she returned from her trip forever changed. She had discovered, while visiting an old castle—are there any other kinds?—that she could sense and communicate with spirits. Ghosts. Formerly living people who were now dead.
I didn’t really believe in ghosts, but after my experience with the woman at Sternwood Manor, it seemed wise to keep an open mind. Miss Scarlett was the only person I knew with any experience with the dead and their spirits.
I entered the door that read “Miss Scarlett’s Fortune Telling” and clawed through a thick cloud of incense looking for my former lover. I could hear her breathing, and then suddenly she was there by my side. She recognized me at once and took the breath out of me in one enormous hug.
“Robbie!” she cried. “I had a feeling I’d be visited by an old friend today. I just couldn’t see that it would be you.”
I hardly recognized the clean-cut schoolmarm I once knew. Her black hair was wrapped up in red silk cloth. Her thick makeup hid every bit of her natural skin color, and the red lipstick made her look a little like a clown. So, this is what living with spirits does to a person, I thought. I made a mental note to myself never to become a spiritualist.
“Helen, honey, I have a problem.”
“A problem with a lover? Do you need some advice from the Great Beyond?”
“No, it’s not that.”
“You want to know how to find your fortune?”
“No.” I took her by both shoulders and looked straight into her dark brown eyes. “I may have seen a ghost.”
Her clown lips spread into a wide smile. “I always knew you had it in you,” she said.
After she locked the door, Helen Scarlett and I spent another good hour or two together in her shop before I drove her out to the old Sternwood place. On the way, she said “I’ve seen this in a dream before” about six times.
Helen gasped as she caught site of the entryway. She couldn’t keep her eyes off the knight still struggling with his eternal rescue attempt. Her fingers caressed the carvings on the door and posts. She breathed deeply of the clean, clear air. “I’ll bet I could tell the owners a thing or two about the ghosts in this place,” she said as the stone-jawed butler opened the door.
Mr. Sternwood greeted us coldly in the maroon-upon-maroon room, and a disdainful eye slithered over Miss Scarlett’s clothing, though I am sure the old man would have been more than pleased to have an eyeful of what lay beneath the former schoolteacher’s dress. He left us to ponder the shining armor propped in the corners and returned with his daughter, who, if anything, was more sparklingly radiant than I remembered.
Helen took one glance at the wealthy heiress and exclaimed, “Oh my Lord!” She rushed up to Elizabeth, took her face in both hands and said, “This explains everything.”
The poor young girl looked about to faint when her father stepped in and pushed Helen aside. “What’s the meaning of this?” he boomed.
“Your daughter,” Helen said in a deep, quiet voice not quite her own, “is the young lady pictured above your door, the one being rescued by the knight. Have you not ever noticed?”
Somehow I knew it was true. Even though the woman pictured was only a stained glass image, it was clear to me that the two were identical. I had another, more chilling, idea, but Miss Sternwood spoke the words before the thought took full shape in my mind.
“But the woman in my room is the woman above the door,” said Elizabeth.
She was correct. There was something oddly familiar about the hideous face, and now I knew what it was. Both Elizabeth and the spectral woman were identical twins—triplets, I guess—with the woman in stained glass.
I could see that Sternwood’s brain was doing back flips inside his skull. Miss Sternwood swayed and fainted. I took Helen’s wrist and asked, “How could that be?”
“I’m not sure,” she said, “but we’ve got to find out tonight, because tomorrow will be too late.”
“Go on,” I said. Obviously, Helen knew something I didn’t. She had always been rather obtuse. Even if she hadn’t become a kooky spiritualist I would have had to dump her anyway.
“This spirit is seeking closure. Its life was cut short by some violent act. The only way it can escape its suffering is to enter the body of a living person, casting that new person’s spirit into eternal torment.
“And…I’m glad Miss Sternwood cannot hear this,” Helen nodded at the unconscious body cradled by the father, “the spirit can only enter the body of someone who is a blood relation.”
“This ghost is a Sternwood?” cried the old man.
“Undoubtedly.”
“But why is tonight so important?” I asked.
Helen said, “The possession always begins on the night of a full moon. If it continues unabated, the transfer of spirits will take place at the new moon. That, my dear, is tonight.”
“What can we do?”
“There is a simple spell, but it must be performed at the moment the transfer begins,” said Helen. “If I do it correctly, the power of the transfer will be broken forever, and the spirit will be immediately cast into nothingness. That fate is not as desirable as Paradise, but far more attractive than eternal suffering.”
“I’ll have nothing of it,” said Sternwood. “I will take Elizabeth from this place, and that witch will never get her.”
“It’s not that simple,” said Helen. “The spirit will find your daughter, even if she were to travel to the moon.
“Please, sir, trust me.”
If you had ever told me that R. E. Tropolitan, Private Detective, would one dark October night be camped out with a medium in the corner of a young woman’s bedroom while waiting for a ghost, I would have sent you to the state mental hospital straightaway. Yet here I was, crouched next to Helen Scarlett, listening to the delicious sounds of Miss Elizabeth Sternwood breathing, waiting for the ghost who normally resided in the stained glass above the front door.
At some point I dozed off and began dreaming about a picnic with Miss Sternwood in some flowery meadow. She was clothed as perfectly as Eve, and I was a well-endowed Adam. I was ripped from the garden, however, by a jab in the ribs.
“Remember,” Helen whispered to me, “as soon as I say the words, strike the spirit with this willow branch. And don’t look in her eyes.” Helen had dipped the willow branch in some odd oil and spice concoction. It smelled delicious.
I saw nothing, but Helen strode firmly toward the foot of the bed. Miss Sternwood gasped and sat straight up in bed. I looked everywhere, but saw no spirit.
Helen raised her arms in the direction of Miss Sternwood. The young girl pulled her white feet from beneath the covers and put them on the floor. Still, I saw nothing.
Elizabeth stood, and I could see her skin begin to glow with a pale yellow light.
Helen turned to me and said, “Stay close to me; don’t look in her eyes.” I kept right to Helen’s back and gripped the willow switch tightly. But still, I saw no ghostly figure.
Then, the air turned cold so suddenly I thought my skin would crack. The spirit stood before Elizabeth, and a long, black tongue was reaching out for the girl’s lips. Helen stood still, and I wondered if she was paralyzed by the same fear I had felt. If there was ever a time to act, it was now. I considered whether I shouldn’t give the ugly spirit a whack, even though Helen hadn’t given the incantation.
The sharp tongue touched Elizabeth’s lips and parted them roughly. At that moment, Helen raised both hands, palms upward. Purple flame burned at her fingertips.
“This body is not yours to keep,
Return your spirit to the deep,
Life is gone now, more or less,
Take yourself to nothingness!”
That was it. Just as the creature turned its head, I closed my eyes and swung that stick like it was the seventh game of the World Series. Something wrenched the stick from my hands, tearing the skin. There was a loud pop, and then silence.
I opened my eyes to see Miss Sternwood passed out on the bed and Helen Scarlett stroking her forehead.
A week later I walked back into Miss Scarlett’s shop, a paper cup full of hot coffee—black—in my hand.
“Hey there, honey, are you home?” I called.
“Have you returned with your share of the Sternwood millions?” Helen asked, bustling in with a bundle of some foul smelling weed.
“Not yet. You know those millionaires—all promises, no payoff. But I did get something out of the trip, and it’s more interesting than money.”
“You learned the truth, didn’t you?” she surmised.
“Yes. Sternwood’s great, great Aunt Margaret disappeared years ago when the manor was under construction. They never found a single trace of her. He did show me a picture, though. Dead ringer for Miss Sternwood.”
“I thought so,” said Helen, taking a sip of my coffee.
“Several years later, the artist who did the stained glass piece above the door was arrested in connection with the deaths of several young women. It seems he used Aunt Margaret as inspiration for the damsel in distress.”
“You should never trust an artist,” she said. Then she looked at me and said, “Or a private detective, either.”
“By the way,” she continued, “what would you do if this damsel were ever in distress?”
Miss Scarlett locked the door, gave me a wink and flounced her way to the back room.