Alfred Hitchcock’s Mystery Magazine. Vol. 5, No. 10, October 1960

Ghost Story by Henry Kane

Detectives should not be required to apprehend ghosts. It simply takes too much time. Moreover, though clothes may make the man, there’s far more to a ghost than his bed sheet.

I do not believe in ghosts. Perhaps I do not believe in ghosts because I refuse to believe in ghosts and my mind rejects the possibility and seeks other explanation. In the Troy affair such explanation, for me, involved death-wish, hallucination, guilt complex, retribution, self-punishment and dual personality, but there again I am out of my ken: I am not a psychiatrist, I am a private detective. There are those who disagree with my conclusions, and you may be one of those. So be it, then. All I can do is render the events just as they occurred, beginning with that bright-white afternoon in January when my secretary ushered Miss Sylvia Troy into my office.

“Miss Sylvia Troy,” said my secretary and departed.

“I’m Peter Chambers,” I said. “Won’t you sit down?”

She was small, quite good-looking, very feminine, about thirty. Close-cut wavy russet-red hair was capped about a smooth round face in which enormous dark brown eyes would have been beautiful except for a flaw in expression almost impossible to put into words. There is only one word — haunted I — and that word, of course, is susceptible to so many different interpretations. Her eyes were far away, gone, out of her, not part of her, remote and lost. She remained standing while I, still seated behind my desk, squirmed uneasily.

“Please sit down,” I said in as cordial a tone as I could muster within the embarrassment of trying to avoid those peculiarly-luminous, strangely-isolated, frightened eyes.

“Thank you very much,” she said and sat in the chair at the side of my desk. She had a soft lovely voice, almost a trained voice as a professional singer’s voice may be termed trained: it was round-voweled, resonant, beautifully-pitched, very feminine, melodious. She was wearing a red wool coat with a little black fur collar and she was carrying a black patent-leather handbag. She opened the handbag, extracted three hundred dollars, snapped shut the bag, and placed the money on my desk. I looked at it, but did not touch it.

“Not enough?” she said.

“I beg your pardon?” I said.

“The way you’re looking at it.”

“Looking at what?” I said.

“The money. Your fee. I’m sorry; but I can’t afford any more.”

“I’m not looking at it in any special way, Miss Troy. I’m just looking at it. Three hundred dollars may be enough or not enough — depending upon what you want of me.”

“I want you to lay a ghost.”

“What?”

“Please, sir, Mr. Chambers,” she said, “I’m deadly serious.”

“A ghost—”

“A ghost who has already killed one person and threatens to kill two others.”

I directed my squirming to seeking in my pockets and finding a cigarette. I lit it and I said, “Miss Troy, the laying of ghosts is not quite my department. If this so-called ghost of yours has killed anyone, then you’ve come to the wrong place. There are constituted authorities, the police—”

“I cannot go to the police.”

“Why not?”

“Because if I tell my story to the police I would be incriminating myself and my two brothers in...” She stopped.

“In what?”

“Murder.”

There was a pause. She sat, limply; and I smoked, nervously.

Then I said, “Do you intend to tell me this story?”

“I do.”

“Won’t that be just as incriminating—”

“No, no, not at all,” she said. “I must tell you because something must be done, because somebody — you, I hope — must help. But if you repeat what I tell you to the police, I will simply deny it. Since there is no proof, and since I would deny what you might repeat, nobody would be incriminated.”

It was coming around to my department. People in trouble are my department. Had there been no mention of a ghost, it would have been completely and familiarly in my department. But it was sufficiently in my department for me to tap out my cigarette in an ashtray, pull the money over to my side of the desk, and say, “All right, Miss Troy, let’s have it.”

“It begins about a year ago. November, a year ago.”

“Yes,” I said.

“There are — or were — four of us in the family.”

“Four in the family,” I said.

“Three brothers and myself. Adam was the oldest. Adam Troy was fifty when he died.”

“And the others?”

“Joseph was thirty-six. Simon is thirty-two. I am twenty-nine.”

“You say Joseph was thirty-six?”

“My brother Joseph killed himself — supposedly killed himself — three weeks ago.”

“Sorry,” I said.

“And now if I may — just a little background.”

“Please,” I said.

“Adam, so much older than any of us, was sort of father to all of us. Adam was a bachelor, rich and successful — he always had a knack for making money — while the rest of us” — she shrugged — “when it came to earning money, we were no shining lights. Joseph was a shoe-salesman, Simon is a drug clerk, and I’m a nightclub performer and, I must confess, a pretty bad one at that.”

“Nightclub performer. Interesting.”

“I do voices, you know? I used to be a ventriloquist. Now I’m a mimic; imitations, that sort of thing. Nothing great. I get by.”

“And Adam?” I said. “What did Adam do?”

“He was a real-estate broker, and a shrewd investor in the stock market. He was a stodgy stingy man — which is probably why he never got married. He was like a father to us but, actually, he never helped us with money unless it was an emergency. But advice — plenty. And criticism — plenty. I can’t say he was bad to us, but he wasn’t really good to us. I hope I’m making myself clear.”

“Yes. Very clear, Miss Troy.”

“Now about the wills.”

“Wills?” I said.

“Last wills and testaments. We all have like it’s called reciprocal wills. If one dies, whatever he leaves is divided amongst the rest of us. I’m sure you know about reciprocal wills.”

“Yes, of course.”

“All right. Now last year, Adam made a real big win in the stock market and he suggested that we take a vacation together, a winter vacation, and that he would pay for all of it. A couple of weeks of skiing, fun, out-of-doors, up in Vermont. Two weeks in a winter wonderland, you know?”

I nodded.

“We, the rest of us, Joseph, Simon, and I — we arranged for those two weeks — the two middle weeks in November — and we all went up to a lodge at Mt. Killington in the Green Mountains of Vermont.” She shuddered and was silent. Then she said, “I don’t know how it began. Maybe we all had it in our minds, maybe that guilt was like a poison in all of us, but it was Joseph who said it first.”

“Said what, please?”

“Said to get rid of Adam. Adam was upstairs sleeping and the three of us were sitting around downstairs in front of a big roaring fireplace, drinking, maybe getting a little drunk, when Joseph put out the suggestion and we were with him so fast it was like all of us said it together. I don’t want to blame anyone. I say all three of us have the blame together. None of us ever had any money, real money, and all of a sudden it came to us, that we could have just that, real money, while we were still young enough to enjoy it.” She shuddered again and put her hands over her face. She spoke through her hands. “From here I’d like to go real quick. Please?”

“Okay,” I said.

Her hands dropped to her lap. “Next day, dressed warmly in ski suits, we went out on an exploring adventure, up into the mountains. Way up, high, Adam was standing near a crevice, a ravine, about a two thousand foot drop, with a little narrow river running on bottom. Joseph came up behind him, shoved, and Adam fell. That’s all. He fell. All the way. There were like echoes coming back, and then — nothing. When we returned, we reported it. We said he had slipped and fallen. The police went up to investigate, there was an inquest, and that was it.”

“What was it?”

“The coroner’s verdict was death by accident.”

I came up out of my chair. I walked my office. I walked in front of her, in back of her, and around her. She did not move. She sat with her hands clasped in her lap. I said, “All right. So much for the incriminating matter. Now, if you please, what ghost killed whom?”

She was motionless. Only her lips moved. “The ghost of Adam killed Joseph.”

“My dear Miss Troy,” I said. “Only a few minutes ago you told me that Joseph committed suicide.”

“I’m sorry, Mr. Chambers, I did not tell you that.”

“But you—”

“I said supposedly killed himself.”

Grudgingly, I admitted my error. “True, you said that. But how can one possibly tell the difference? I mean—”

“May I tell it my own way?”

“Please do.” I went back to my chair, sat, watched her as she spoke, but my eyes did not meet hers. Somehow, on this bright-white normal afternoon in January, in the accustomed confines of my very own office, I could not bring myself to look full upon this woman’s eyes.

“I live at One-thirty-three West Thirty-third Street,” she said.

“Uh huh,” I said and happily business-like, I jotted it down, delighted for something prosaic to do.

“It’s a one-room apartment on the fourth floor. 4 C.”

“Yeah, yeah,” I murmured, jotting assiduously.

“Two months ago, on November fifteenth, exactly one year from the time of his death, Adam came to visit me.”

“Adam came to visit,” I murmured as I jotted — and then I flung the pencil away. “Now just a minute, Miss Troy!”

Quite mildly she said, “Yes, Mr. Chambers?”

“Adam is the guy who’s dead, or isn’t he? Adam is the guy whom, allegedly, you people murdered, or isn’t he?”

“Yes, he is.”

“And he came to visit you?”

“Precisely.”

I sighed. “Where?”

“On the afternoon of November fifteenth, I had gone out to the supermarket for a bit of shopping. When I came home, he was there, sitting quietly in a chair, waiting for me.”

I recovered my pencil and pretended to make notes. “Are you sure it was Adam?”

“The ghost of Adam. Adam is dead.”

“Yes, naturally, ghost of Adam. How did he look?”

“Exactly as he had looked on the day he died. He was even wearing the same clothes — the high-laced boots, the green ski suit, the green ski cap.”

“He talked to you?”

“Yes.”

“How did he sound?”

“As always. Adam had a deep booming voice. He sounded sad, aggrieved, but not, actually, angry.”

“And what did he say?”

“He said that he had returned to visit retribution on us; those were the exact words — visit retribution. He said he was going to kill Joseph first, then Simon, and then me. Then he stood up, opened the door, and walked out.”

“And you?”

“I called my brothers, they came to my apartment, and I told them just what happened. Of course, they didn’t believe me. They told me it was my imagination, that I had been highly nervous of late. They suggested that I go see a doctor. All in all, somehow, they talked me out of it. I did nothing about it — not even when Joseph was killed.”

“Suicide, even supposed suicide—”

“Joseph slashed his wrists and died. But there was no weapon. No weapon was found near the body; there was no weapon with blood anywhere in his apartment.”

I lit a new cigarette. The flame of the match trembled. I blew it out quickly and deposited it in the tray. I inhaled deeply. I said, “Miss Troy, you did nothing about it then — why are you doing something about it now?”

“Because Adam came to visit me again last night. When I returned from work, he was seated in the same chair, dressed exactly as the other time. He said that he had accomplished his purpose with Joseph — and that Simon was next. Then he got up, opened the door, and went out.”

“And you?”

“I fainted. When I came to, I became hysterical. That passed, and then I put on fresh make-up, and went directly to my brother Simon. It was late at night, but I didn’t care. Simon lives on West Fourth Street, quite near to where I work. I rang his bell until he woke up and let me in. I told him what had happened and again he just didn’t believe me. He told me that he insisted that I go to a doctor and that he was going to make arrangements for just that. Today I decided I had to do something about it. I’d heard about you — and I’m here. Please, Mr. Chambers, will you help me? Please. Please.”

“I’ll do whatever I can,” I said. I inquired and made notes about names, addresses and phone numbers, where she worked, where her brother worked, all of that. Then I printed my home phone number on one of my business cards and gave it to her. “You may call me here or at home whenever you please,” I said.

“Thank you.” She smiled her first smile, gratefully.

I placed her three hundred dollars into a drawer of my desk and said, “All right. Let’s go.”

“Go? Where?”

“I’d like to see your apartment. May I?”

“Yes, of course.” She stood up. “You’re very thorough, aren’t you?”

“That’s the way I work,” I said.

It was on the fourth floor, walk-up, of a six-story, new-fashioned, re-modeled house. It was a tiny one-room apartment: small living room with one tiny closet, a tiny bathroom, and a tiny kitchenette. There was no window in the kitchenette, one window in the bathroom, and two windows in the living room — each window with a secure inside turn-bolt.

“Excellent,” I said. “Did you have these bolts put on?”

“No. The former tenant.”

“They’re good bolts in fine working order.” I nodded approvingly, continued my inspection. “I see there’s no fire-escape.”

“No need,” she said. “They were eyesores that were removed when the house was re-modeled because they made it fire-proof.”

But the lock on the door was utterly deficient. Simple and ancient, it did not require an expert to solve it, and the door itself carried no secondary protection: no bolt.

“This’ll never do,” I mumbled.

“Beg pardon?” she said.

“Look, I don’t know who’s been visiting you, ghost or no ghost, but anyone can get in here with any old key, and a picklock can make this doorlock do somersaults. This has got to go.”

“Go?” she inquired. “Go?”

“Where’s your Classified Directory?”

She brought it to me and I checked a few locksmiths and called a few locksmiths and found one who was free and told him what I wanted. He promised to come within the next half hour and Miss Troy made coffee and sandwiches, and we munched and chatted but avoided any mention of ghosts, and she grew more animated and smiled more frequently, and I discovered that I was having a very pleasant afternoon.

“Why don’t you come see me at the club this evening?” she said. “I told you where it is when you were making all those notes in your office. Cafe Bella on West Third in the Village.”

“What time do you go on?”

“The show starts at nine, and it’s sort of continuous. There are six acts — nobody’s real great and they don’t pay us much — but we don’t work too hard and everybody has his own dressing room which is something. The show runs from nine to two, sometimes later, depending upon business. In between, I just sit around in my dressing room. I don’t like to mix with the customers and the owners don’t demand that we do. I do wish you’d drop in and catch my act.”

“I might,” I said.

The locksmith came and he did as I requested. He installed a strong modern lock and he installed a sturdy steel slide-bolt. I paid him out of my pocket-money and I refused reimbursement from Miss Troy.

“Part of the fee,” I said, “and it may do the trick. You may never be bothered again.”

“I hope so, I hope so,” she said. “God bless you. I’m beginning to feel better already. It’s like when you go to a good doctor, you know, and he reassures you. Just your presence and your attitude — all these crazy things seem to be like a dream, a nightmare, and all of a sudden it’s morning and it was all dreadful but silly, you know?”

“Yes, I do, and I’m glad. Just keep right on thinking like that. Good-by now, and thank you for the lovely lunch.”

“Oh, don’t mention it. Will you come see me tonight?”

“I’ll try,” I said.

Simon Troy worked in a drug store at 74th Street and Columbus Avenue. It was small, cluttered, and old-fashioned, and it did not have a soda fountain. It smelled of herbs and pharmaceuticals and germicidals and there was dust on the shelves and the dust in the air made you want to sneeze. Simon Troy, working alone, was a blond wispy little man with puppy-sad brown eyes, a belge-leather complexion, and small yellow teeth. His smile, as he greeted me, was perfunctory: a drug clerk greeting a customer. I told him who I was and why I was there and an expression of anxiety wizened his face as his smile receded.

“If you please,” he said, “let us go in the back where we can talk.”

The rear, partitioned by thick plate-glass from the front, was a narrow area dominated by a drawer-pocked wooden counter for the making of prescriptions. There were a couple of wire-backed, rickety, armless chairs, and he motioned me to one of them. Before I sat, I said, “You are Simon Troy?”

Impatiently he said, “Yes, yes, of course.”

I produced cigarettes, offered one to him, and he grabbed at it with thin, bony, tobacco-stained fingers. He lit my cigarette, lit his, and puffed at it rapidly, shallowly, and noisily. I talked and he listened. I told him everything that Sylvia Troy had told me and I told him of the fee that she had paid me. When I was finished, he was finished with the cigarette, and he lit one of his own from the stub of the one I had donated. “Mr. Chambers,” he said, “I assume you must realize how terribly worried I am about my sister.”

I nodded. I said nothing.

“She’s sick, Mr. Chambers. I’m certain it was apparent to you.”

I nodded again. I said, “Would you tell me what happened up at Mt. Killington?”

“You mean about Adam?”

“If you please.”

He told me. “We weren’t even near him. He had gone over for a peek at that precipitous edge. We were quite far away, many yards from him, the three of us together. He must have had a seizure, a dizzy spell. We heard the scream as he slipped, toppled — and then he was gone. The Vermont police examined the site after we reported it. It had begun to snow and they could not make out any footprints on the edge. But from the points of the jagged crags below, which they could reach, they recovered bits of bone, bits of flesh, and bits of the ski suit he had been wearing. The body, of course, was never recovered.” He put the tip of his right index finger between his teeth and bit upon the fingernail, audibly.

“Mr. Troy,” I said. “Do you have any idea as to why your sister has come up with this wild story of hers?”

“I’m afraid there’s only one explanation. I believe her to be in the throes of a severe nervous breakdown.”

“But is there any basis for it? Any past history? Any reason?”

“She mentioned our reciprocal wills to you, didn’t she.”

“Yes,” I said.

“Well, Adam’s estate, after taxes, was divided into approximately fifty thousand dollars for each of us. My brother Joseph, a childless widower, was a rather conservative man, as am I. We put that money away and continued in the even tenor of our ways — but not so Sylvia. She quit her nightclub work, went off to Europe, and within a year, she had squandered her inheritance in toto. I think this did something to her, disturbed her, that within a year she was back to where she had started. She was compelled to return to work for a living, and right then, right from the beginning, she began to act peculiarly. Then she began to prattle about a plot, our plot, to murder Adam. And now this terrible business about Adam’s ghost.”

“And what about Joseph?” I said. “His suicide. Would you tell me?”

“Precious little to tell. Joseph was a sweet, simple, meticulous man. He was quite a hypochondriac although he had a dread of doctors. About six months ago he developed stomach pains, nausea, vomiting. He refused to go to a doctor, but I finally dragged him. X-rays disclosed a mass in his stomach. The doctors believed it to be benign, but Joseph believed otherwise. We had arranged for an operation but, before the time for it arrived, he killed himself.”

“Yes, I know, he slashed his wrists,” I said. “But what about this business of no weapon?”

He smiled, yellow-fanged, sadly. “The police are satisfied with the explanation. Joseph committed suicide in his bathroom. He cut open his wrists and bled to death. Knowing Joseph, I know exactly what he did, once he made up his mind to do it. There was an open razor found nearby, without a blade. He took the blade from that razor, cut his wrists, dropped the blade into the toilet bowl, flushed the toilet, and bled to death. There was a good deal of blood, all over that bathroom, but no actual weapon. Joseph was meticulous, a creature of habit. He flushed the weapon away into the toilet bowl. The police agreed completely with my thinking in the matter. After all, I was his brother; I knew him.”

I stood up, saying, “Thank you.”

“Mr. Chambers, please.” He fidgeted, hesitant, obviously embarrassed.

“Yes?” I said.

“Mr. Chambers,” he blurted. “I believe you should return that fee to my sister.”

“Why?”

“She doesn’t need a private detective. She needs a doctor.”

“I’m inclined to agree.”

He smiled, seeming relieved that I understood and acquiesced. “I’ve already made inquiries,” he said, “and I’ve selected a physician, nerve-specialist, psychiatrist, whatever the devil they call them these days. By some pretext or other, I’m going to get her to him.”

“Good enough,” I said. “As for the fee, I agree. It belongs with a doctor, rather than with me.”

“You’re extremely considerate. I thank you.”

“I don’t believe I should give it to her, though,” I said. “No sense disturbing her any further. I’ll bring it to you. I don’t have it with me, but I’ll deliver it later on to your apartment.”

“Please keep fifty dollars of it, Mr. Chambers. You’ve certainly earned that.”

“Thank you. Then I’ll see you later.”

“You know where?”

“Miss Troy gave me your address on Fourth Street.”

“It’s apartment 3 A. And, oh!”

“Yes?”

“Actually, I’m a night man here. I work from two in the afternoon and I close at ten. Then I go home, eat, shower, relax. So I’m not home until quite late.”

“I’m somewhat of a night man, myself,” I said. “Suppose I come around midnight. Is that all right?”

“Fine, fine. You’ve been very kind, Mr. Chambers.”

He shook hands with me and I left.

At ten o’clock that evening, with two hundred and fifty dollars of her fee in my pocket, I sat at a back table of Cafe Bella and watched her act. Cafe Bella was dim and unpretentious, the service was poor, the liquor was bad, and so was Sylvia Troy’s act. She came out in black trousers and a black blouse and she did imitations of celebrities, male and female. Her range of voice was marvelous — from deep male baritone to male tenor to male alto to female contralto to mezzo-soprano to the high squiggly soprano of elderly women — but her imitations were rank, her material wretched, her timing deplorable, and her woeful little jokes were delivered without a spark of talent. I left in the middle of her performance.

I had a late supper, I wandered in and out of some of the Village clubs, I had a few drinks, I watched a few dancing girls, and then at midnight I went to 149 West 4th Street which was Simon Troy’s address. A self-service elevator took me up to the third floor and there I pushed the button of 3 A. There was no answer. I pushed again. No answer. I tried the knob. The door was open and I entered.

Simon Troy was seated, staring straight ahead, his elbows resting on the edge of a table for two. On the table in front of him was a large cocktail glass empty except for a cherry at its base. He was staring at a vacant chair opposite. On that side of the table, in front of the vacant chair, stood a similar cocktail glass brimming-full and untouched. I went quickly to Simon Troy, examined him, and then went to the telephone and called the police to report his death.

The man in charge was my friend Detective-lieutenant Louis Parker of Homicide. His experts quickly ascertained the cause of death as cyanide poisoning. The cherry in the drained cocktail glass was thoroughly imbued with it. Simon Troy’s fingerprints were on the stem of the glass. The other glass was free of poison. There were no fingerprints on its stem. Inspection revealed no vial or other container for poison in the apartment. After the body and the evidence were removed and Lieutenant Parker and I were alone, he said, “Well, what goes? What’s the story on this? What are you doing here?”

“Do you believe in ghosts, Lieutenant.”

Cryptically he said, “Sometimes, Why? Are you going to tell me a ghost story?”

“I might at that,” I said. I told him the entire story and I told him what I was doing in Simon Troy’s apartment.

“Wow,” he said. “Let’s go talk to the little lady.”

She was in her dressing room. She maintained that she had been in her dressing room, or out on the floor performing, all night. Her dressing room opened upon a corridor which led to a back exit directly on the street. Parker questioned all the employees in the place. None could disprove what Sylvia Troy had said. Then Parker took her to the station house and I accompanied them. There he questioned and cross-questioned her for hours, but she stoutly maintained that she had not left her dressing room except to go out on the floor and do her act. Policemen came and went and the questioning was frequently interrupted by whispered conferences. At length Parker threw his hands up. “Get out,” he said to her. “Go home. Ami you better stay there so we know where we can reach you.”

“Yes, sir,” she said meekly and departed.

We were silent. Parker lit a cigar and I lit a cigarette. Finally I said, “Well, what do you think?”

“I think that little chick is pulling the con-game to end all con-games and we don’t have a thing on which to hold her.”

“How so, my friend?” I said.

“You know about those reciprocal wills, don’t you?”

“Yes.”

“The first one — Joseph’s — is still in Probate. Now the second one goes into Probate. With these two brothers dead, that little dame stands to come into upwards of a hundred thousand dollars.”

“So?”

“So we’ve got Joseph listed as suicide, but since no weapon was found, it could have been murder. Now this Simon could be suicide too, can’t he? — except no vial, no container.” He waved a hand. “Spirited away.”

“The ghost?” I said mildly.

“The dame,” he said. “She killed the two of them and concocted this ghost story as the craziest smokescreen ever. And we don’t have one iota of proof against her. But we’re going to keep at it, baby; that I can assure you.” Then he smiled, wearily. “Go home, boy. You look tired.”

“How about you?” I said.

“Not me. I stay right here and work.”

I got home at four o’clock, and as I opened my door, my phone was ringing. I ran to it and lifted the receiver. It was Sylvia Troy.

“Mr. Chambers!” she said. “Please! Mr. Chambers!” The terror in her voice put needles on my skin.

“What is it?” I said “What’s the matter?”

“He called me.”

“Who?”

“Adam!”

“When?”

“Just now, just now. He said he was coming... for me.” The voice drifted off.

“Miss Troy!” I called. “Miss Troy!”

“Yes?” The voice was feeble.

“Can you hear me?”

“Yes.”

“I want you to close all your windows and bolt them.”

“I’ve already done that,” she said in that peculiar childlike sing-song.

“And lock your door and bolt it.”

“I’ve done that too.”

“Now don’t open your door to anyone except me. I’ll ring and talk to you through the closed door so you’ll know who it is. You’ll recognize my voice?”

“Yes, Mr. Chambers. Yes, I will.” “Good. Now just stay put. I’ll be there right away.”

I hung up and I called Parker and I told him. “This is it,” I said, “whatever it is. Bring plenty of men and plenty of artillery. We figure to shake loose a murderer. I’ll meet you downstairs. You know the address?”

“Of course.”

I hung up and ran.

Aside from Parker, there were three detectives and three uniformed policemen — one of whom was carrying a carbine. As we entered the hallway, the detectives and the two remaining policemen took their pistols from their holsters. At the door to 4 C, Parker motioned to me and I rang the bell.

A deep booming masculine voice responded.

“Yes? Who is it?”

“Peter Chambers. I want to talk with Miss Troy.”

“She’s not here,” boomed the voice.

“That’s a lie. I know she’s in there.”

“She doesn’t want to talk to you.”

“Who are you?”

“None of your business,” boomed the voice. “Go away.”

“Sorry. I’m not going, mister.”

The deep voice took on a rasp of irritation. “Look, I’ve got a gun in my hand. If you don’t get away, I’m going to shoot right through the door.”

Parker pulled me aside and called through the door: “Open up! Police!”

“I don’t care who you say you are,” boomed the voice. “I’m warning you for the last time. Either you people get away or I shoot.”

“And I’m warning you,” called Parker. “Either you open the door or we shoot. I’m going to count to three. Unless you open up, we’re going to shoot our way in. One!”

No answer.

“Two!”

Deep booming derisive laughter.

“Three!”

No sound.

Parker motioned to the policeman carrying the carbine and he ranged up. Parker raised his right hand, index finger pointed upward.

“Open up! Last call!”

No sound.

Parker pointed the finger at the policeman and nodded. A stream of bullets ripped through the door. There was a piercing scream, a thud, and silence. Parker made a sign to two of the detectives, burly men. They knew what to do. They hurled themselves at the door, shoulder to shoulder, in unison, time and again. The door creaked, creaked, gave, and then burst from its fastenings.

Sylvia Troy lay on the floor dead of the bullets from the carbine. There was no one else in the apartment. The door had been locked and bolted. The windows were closed and bolted from the inside. Inspection was quick, expert, and unequivocal, but, aside from the corpse of Sylvia Troy — and now, ourselves — there was no one else in the apartment.

Detective-Lieutenant Louis Parker came to me, his eyes belligerent but bewildered, his face angrily glistening beneath a veil of perspiration. His men, tall, thick-armed, strong-muscled, powerful, gathered like silent children, in a group about him. “What the hell?” said the Detective-Lieutenant, the words issuing in a curious hoarse whisper. “What do you think, Pete?”

I had to swallow before I could speak, but I clung to my premise. “I do not believe in ghosts,” I said.

Perhaps I do not believe in ghosts because I refuse to believe in ghosts and my mind rejects the possibility and seeks other explanation. In the Troy affair such explanation, for me, involved death-wish, hallucination, guilt complex, retribution, self-punishment, and dual personality.

There are those who disagree with my conclusions.

You may be one of them.