Radio Digest (Jan-Oct 1926)

RADIO DIGES T— Illustrated February 27,1926 a Tlie door swung open with the noiselessness of oiled hinges and a tall dajk man in the garments of the East stood, facing her . . . Indian, perhaps, or Malaysian. CHAPTER ONE The Disappearing Visitor UNDER the whispering cedars a one-armed man stood motionless, shielding his eyes with-his hand and peering through/ the blizzard — a lmost impenetrable now that twilight was falling — toward the little boat landing at the foot of the driveway. There was a footfall on the brittle ice along the shore and then, presently, a ringing step on the packed snow near the park. The one-armed man stepped suddenly out of his shelter to confront a youthful figure in a heavY ulster. Recognition in such a light would have been impossible, even had the newcomer's face not been shielded by the long bill of a cap and the folds of a plaid muffler that crept up over his chin. Still, the one-armed man peered at him for a long time, silently and appraisingly. "What do you want?" he demanded. A youthful laugh answered him. "Who are you?" countered the stranger. "I'm Henry Millis," replied the onearmed man slowly. "I'm caretaker here. I was put here by Peleg Turner. I stayed here when his brother Jeremiah came here to live an' I know everybody they knew. . . . An' I don't know you." "I dare say that's possible. What of it?" Henry Millis paused unmindful of the blizzard driving into his face and seemed to be thinking carefully about his answer. . . "There's this about it," he said at length. "Nobody ever has come to this house from off the sea there an' brought any good with them. There was a boat tied up to the landing there the night Jeremiah was shot an' Johnny Carton disappeared. There was somebody walked down that landing the night Peleg Turner died. I seen him come. I didn't see him go. In the mornin' there was a boat floatin' out there on the bay bottom side up an' old Peleg was lyin' dead up there in the house An' now you come. You're the third." "Yes, if your count is correct, I should be the third. . . .But I am no undertaker. I came across Pelican Bay in a launch because I had to be here by six o'clock. It wasn't such bad going until the snow began. I suppose I was lucky to get here but there's no mystery about it." "Nobody's lucky to get here," growled Henry Millis. "Mind you, I'm givin' you Head 'UHIS Thrilling Story and Hear It Broadcast in Radario Form from Your Favorite Station fair waritfn' young feller. If you belong up there at the house them as is there already will. know it.. If you don't belong there God help you." "I'll take my chances." And the gray ulster moved off to be lost in the grayer shadows .under the storm' swept cedars while Henry Millis resumed his post under the trees with his eyes turned toward . the boat landing — watching, waiting. ... , SAVE for the snow, driven in plumy masses across the bare front of the building and softening the harsh outline of red brick wall and red tile gable, the house was much as it had been when they; carried old Peleg Turner's coffin out through the seldom used front door .on what should have been his last voyage. The critical populace of Pelican Bay, jadmitted the changelessness of the Turner manse with considerable reluctance. It did not seem right that the taking off of so important a citizen should have produced so little physical ; effect upon the scenes with which he had been associated. True, there was an air of permanence about the old place .that had survived even its evil reputation. Nothing, so far as anybody knew had happened to it when Washington's men had impaled its first owne'r, a Tory spy, to that same front door with his own sword. Nor had there been any obvious results when another doubtfully identified gentleman of the Turner family had seen a ghost in the great, empty gunroom and had died with his face in his glass of port although that was explained by some skeptics, it must be admitted, with the suggestion that he might not have seen a ghost at all — that apoplexy, abetted by alcohol, might have caused his passing quite as well as a supernatural visitation. For generation after generation the house had stood there, firm as a fortress with its buttressed walls of Lincolnshire brick and its timbers of teak precisely as it had been when the first of the seagoing Turners had come home from the back-lots of the world and had built it for his Spanish bride. Recently an ominous gloom has seemed to haunt the ancient abode. A depressed foreboding like a deepening shadow had seemed to spring from the darkened windows since the day that Jeremiah Turner had been found dead on the gunroom hearth, a bullet in his head. » The superstition grew from that very night when the lights that always had burned brightly in the gunroom had flickered out to be followed by the lifted latch that opened only to permit the passing of another Turner — through the door of death reserved by tradition for the final exit of the lord of the manor. AN AUTOMOBILE crunched through h\ the. drifts under the porte-cochere ■*■ ■*• and a girl alighted — a tiny figure against the massive outline of the handhewn ballustrades and door frames, even in the enveloping bulk of her fur coat. She raised the knocker at the side door $500 in Gold FOR THE SOLUTION OF a Step On the Stairs WITH the beginning of this exclusive and pioneering effort in coupling a master serial novelette with its production as a Radio play at a selected few of the country's best broadcasting stations, Radio Digest wishes to announce that $500.00 in Gold prizes will be awarded to the persons who can best solve the mystery. The story, "A Step On the Stairs," is written by Robert J. Casey, an author whose works in the literary world need no introduction. Furthermore he is well versed in the needs of such fiction for Radio presentation. His work, in turn, is being Radio dramatized by Fred Smith, Managing Director of the United States Radio Society, who can be counted among the first few men to write and present Radio plays. Read the story and hear it played weekly from the selected stations. Don't miss this thriller, whether or not you intend to submit a solution! The chosen stations, which will broadcast "A Step On the Stairs" in Radio play form, are given on page thirteen. The days and the hours are listed. THE PRIZES The prizes are seventeen in number. First prize is $250; second prize is $100; third to seventeenth prizes inclusive, are $10 each. In the event of a tie for any prize offered, a prize identical in all respects with that tied for will be awarded to each tying contestant. HOW TO WIN A PRIZE Nine installments of Mr. Casey's story will be published consecutively each week, the first appearing in the February 27 issue. His tenth and final installment will not appear until the prize winning solutions have been selected by the judges. The solution nearest correct, that is, nearest to unravelling the mystery accurately, will win. In the event that two or more solutions are absolutely correct, the method of preparing the solution — its neatness, legibility, etc. — shall be considered. RULES OF CONTEST 1. The contest opens with the February 27 issue. All solutions must be received by Radio Digest not later than midnight of Saturday, May 1. The ninth installment of the story will appear in the April 24 issue. The author's intended and final chapter will appear in the May 15 issue of Radio Digest, together with the announcement of the winners' names. 2. The contest is open to everyone except employes of Radio Digest and their families. 3. Contestants pay no fee and need not be subscribers to Radio Digest. Solutions, however, must be written upon but one side of paper, and names and addresses should be written or printed plainly. 4. The decision of the judges, to be named later in the contest, will be final. and dropped it gently to be startled by the resultant clang that echoed through the unseen corridors beyond. The door swung open with the noiselessness of oiled hinges and a tall dark man in the garments of the East stood facing her. . . . Indian, perhaps, or Malaysian. Old Peleg had picked his servants in odd corners of the world. "I am Mary Williams," she said. "I received a message to be here at six o'clock." "You are expected," the man at the door told her. "There are others here. . . They are in the the Big Room" — he seemed to be quoting a title rather than a description. "If the Sitt will give me her wraps, I shall be glad to escort the Sitt to the place of meeting. . . .One moment, please, here comes the caretaker. I think he wishes to speak with me." The girl turned to see Henry Millis — now only one of many shadows under the porte-cochere — leaping up the three stairs from the driveway. She could see little of him even in the dim light from the hallway as he stopped at the threshold to address the Indian. "There was somebody here, Hari Singh?" he asked. "A man with a gray overcoat and a plaid muffler? A young feller. . . .You ain't seen him?" "There has been nobody here since you went down toward the boat landing," replied Hari Singh. "Nobody in the last hour except the lady here." And Mary Williams marveled at the sudden panic in the eyes that were all she could make out of the haggard face of Henry Millis. "Where did he go?" he demanded. Hari Singh dismissed the matter with a shrug. "Who knows where anybody goes?" he replied. "He may have been wise enough to change his mind about coming here." "There ain't any good comes to the Turners from out of the sea," muttered Henry Millis. "That's what my grandmother said. That's ' what I say. No luck to the Turners out of the sea." "So few of the Turners are left that it doesn't make much difference," deprecated Hari Singh. And he closed the door as Henry Millis stalked away into the deepening gloom. CHAPTER TWO The Voice of Peleg Turner DINNER had been served in the high beamed hunt-room — a ghastly affair for the dozen strangers who had eyed one another suspiciously across the vast whiteness of the table. Now Hari Singh, soft-footed and uncannily efficient, had removed the napery and silver and polished crystal and the light from the wilting tapers in a ten-branched candlestick made little ineffectual pools of twilight in the black oak board. The great beams of teak were lost in the shadows that gave the height of a cathedral to the ceiling. The paneled corners were in movement with weird reflections from the fire that was dying on the board hearth. About the room in the deep cushioned leather chairs that the first Turner had brought with his bride from Spain a hundred years ago, the strangers sat in isolated groups and talked in whispers as they appraised one another without pretext or shame. Mary Williams was more fortunate than most of the guests at this strange banquet. She found herself seated next to a man whom she had met before. The extent of this good fortune was curtailed somewhat by the fact that she would rather have met almost any other man in the world. Still, she could talk to him and there was much about this affair that she could wish explained.