The Fourth Door (Locked Room International) Read online

  THE FOURTH DOOR

  THE FOURTH DOOR

  Paul Halter

  Translated by John Pugmire

  The Fourth Door

  This book is a work of fiction. The characters, incidents, and dialogue are drawn from the author’s imagination and are not to be construed as real. Any resemblance to actual events or persons, living or dead, is entirely coincidental.

  First published in French in 1987 by

  Editions du Masque – Hachette Livre as La Quatrieme Porte

  THE FOURTH DOOR. Copyright © Editions du Masque, 1987.

  Copyright © Paul Halter, 2007.

  English translation copyright © by John Pugmire 1999.

  All rights reserved. No part of this book may be used or reproduced in any manner whatsoever without written permission except in the case of brief quotations embodied in critical articles and reviews.

  For information, contact: [email protected]

  FIRST AMERICAN EDITION

  Library of Congress Cataloging-in-Publication Data

  Halter, Paul

  [La Quatrieme Porte. English]

  The Fourth Door / Paul Halter;

  Translated from the French by John Pugmire

  In gratitude to Roland Lacourbe, from whose masterly work Houdini et sa légende (Editions Techniques du Spectacle – Strasbourg) I have borrowed extensively in those chapters dealing with Houdini’s life.

  P.H.

  FIRST PART

  I

  NIGHT LIGHT

  I had gone to my room early that night, thinking I might have a pleasant evening with a book. But I had hardly settled down when there were three discreet knocks on my door. It was my sister, who had chosen this particular moment to see me.

  At eighteen, she was already a ravishing young woman, but I sometimes wondered if she realised it. Over recent months, she had changed in so many ways, and her beauty had not gone unnoticed by John Darnley, who was pursuing her with a quiet determination. But Elizabeth, while undoubtedly flattered by his intentions, had set her cap at Henry White, our neighbour who just happened to be my best friend. Now Henry, despite his studied air of self-assurance, was actually surprisingly shy with girls, Elizabeth in particular; the same Elizabeth with whom he was quite obviously smitten.

  “I’m not disturbing you, am I, James?” she asked, her hand hovering near the doorknob.

  “Of course not,” I said with a long and - I hoped - meaningful sigh, my nose still buried in my book.

  She sat down beside me on the bed, her head bowed and her hands nervously working, then looked gravely at me with those large brown eyes.

  “James, I have to talk to you.”

  “Yes?”

  “It’s about Henry.”

  I knew what was coming next: I was to serve as go-between for two people too proud or too shy to show their feelings.

  Elizabeth snatched the book from my hands and said, in a much harsher tone:

  “Are you going to listen, James?”

  Surprised to hear her raise her voice like that I deigned to look at her, and then, casually lighting a cigarette, and applied myself to blowing several perfectly shaped smoke rings. When we were children, I liked nothing better than making her lose her temper by remaining cool and calm, whenever she was upset. This was calculated to drive her into a black rage, and I’m ashamed to admit I have never lost the knack. Even so, not wishing to push her to the limit, I relented.

  “I’m listening.”

  “It’s about Henry, he….”

  “About Henry,” I repeated, putting on a show of interest (at which a look of surprise crossed her face). “Just a moment.”

  I got up, strode to the bookcase, took down the first volume of an encyclopaedia, which I proceeded to balance on my knee, and said mockingly,

  “Since you raise the subject so often, and since it is of such major interest, I’ve written a modest eight hundred page monograph on the subject, but this is only the first volume….”

  I thought she was going to choke with rage. She ran to the door, but I managed to block her path. It took me a good five minutes to calm her down.

  “Go ahead, I’m all ears. You can count on your big brother to come up with a solution to your problem.” (I was all of one year older)

  She uttered a deep sigh, and said, “I love Henry.”

  “Well, I know that. Anything else?”

  “Henry loves me.”

  “I know that as well.”

  “But he’s too shy to say so”.

  “Give it time. You’ll see….”

  “It shouldn’t be up to me to make the first move. It’s not my style anyway. Do I look the type?

  “He might take me for one of those girls who....No, it’s completely out of the question!”

  There was a silence. She rubbed her eyes furiously before going on.

  “Three days ago I really thought he was on the point of kissing me. We were strolling along the path leading to the woods; it was starting to get dark, and I told him I was getting cold. He put his arm around my shoulders, we walked along in silence, and then he suddenly he turned to me, and I’ll swear, James, he was going to kiss me - I could tell by the look in his eye – but what did he do instead, he bent down, picked up an old piece of string off the ground, and said, ‘Look, Elizabeth, look what I can do.’ And with that, he tied a dozen knots in the string.”

  “And then?”

  “Then,” she continued, fighting back the tears. “Then he took his shoes off and….”

  “And…?”

  “He took his socks off.”

  “Elizabeth, don’t even bother to tell me, let me guess. He untied the knots with his toes!”

  “Exactly,” groaned Elizabeth. “ He never even thought about kissing me.”

  I couldn’t help laughing. “That’s good old Henry for you!”

  “I don’t find it at all amusing.”

  “Come on, Sis, don’t you get it? Henry was just trying to amuse you, entertain you, even - dare I say - charm you. It’s just his way of -”

  “I would much have preferred it if he had simply kissed me,” she said with a grimace.

  An astonishing fellow, our Henry. He showed he was different from the rest of us from the moment he was born, prematurely as it happens, a handicap that didn’t last long in the face of all the loving care and attention lavished on him by his mother. In no time at all he was a sturdy lad, with abundant and infectious energy. He became infatuated with the circus and its acrobats, a passion which his father, a noted novelist, failed to appreciate. In defiance of a ban imposed by his father, he ran away at regular intervals to join a circus company where he excelled in all aspects: as juggler, acrobat, contortionist, and conjurer. After a number of years, his father bowed to the inevitable and from then on, during each long vacation, Henry disappeared for several weeks to join a circus on its tour. His excuse was to earn pocket money, although his father already gave him a generous enough allowance, but the truth is my friend was – and still is – driven by a desire, almost a pathological need, to excel in everything. This business of undoing knots with his bare feet was Henry all over.

  Hiding my amusement as best I could, I comforted my sister.

  “Wait till next time. He was only trying to hide his shyness by dazzling you with his skill”.

  “I believe you, but I’m still a bit miffed. Listen, James, you have to talk to him, discreetly of course, but he needs to understand. Or else….”

  I cocked an eyebrow.

  “I shall have to consider John’s offer,” she continued, with a rather detached air. “Admittedly his prospects aren’t exactly brilliant, a
fter all he’s only a mechanic, but he does have a certain charm and -”

  “Why should I care? I’m not your ...Betty!” I shouted suddenly “Whatever you do, don’t do that! Henry is as jealous as a tiger. He’d never forgive me. He’s my best friend and I don’t want to lose him!”

  “Jealous! That’s a good one!” she spat, “He’s shown hardly any interest in me at all. Jealous? I’d like to know why! Anyway, from now on I’m going to….”

  She burst into tears while I maintained a diplomatic silence.

  “I love him, James, but I can’t bear all this waiting. You have to help me. His parents have gone to London and he’s all on his own in the house. You could talk to him, explain to him..”

  “Alright” I said wearily. “I’ll go and see what I can do, but I’m not promising anything. Let me see,” I looked at my watch. “It’s not quite 9 o’clock so Henry probably won’t be in bed yet.”

  Elizabeth went to the window and drew back the curtain.

  “I don’t see any lights, but - Oh! James! JAMES!” she screamed. In two strides I was at her side.

  “I saw a gleam of light” she whimpered, shuddering.

  “Where? Apart from the standard lamp, there isn’t -”

  Her finger was pointing towards the Darnley house.

  “I’m sure of it; I saw it, just for a second. A light, up there in the room where Mrs. Darnley….”

  There, at the window of my room, I carefully scanned the familiar landscape. We lived on the fringe of a small village near Oxford and the road, coming from the left, stopped when it reached our house. Opposite us, a dirt track disappeared into the woods and two houses stood on either side of it. The one on the right belonged to the Whites, while on the left, in the angle formed by the road and the track stood the gloomy and forbidding Darnley residence. The entrance to the tall, gabled, red brick building was hidden behind an impressively high hedge, while a drab cloak of ivy cloaked its walls. The only bright spot was a magnificent weeping willow which might have lightened the atmosphere even more but for an assortment of yews, pines, and other conifers in the opposite corner behind the house, through which the wind whistled and moaned lugubriously. The place was oppressively sinister, and my sister, not over-endowed with imagination, had dubbed it ‘Wuthering Heights’. Apart from that, the house had acquired a reputation for evil since that unforgettable day a year or two before the Second World War, when John was about twelve.

  His father, Victor Darnley, was an industrialist and had everything going well for him: a prospering business and a contented family life. He was very proud of his son, and his wife, a pleasant, self-effacing woman, was highly regarded in the village. Returning from London one evening in October, Darnley Senior found the house strangely quiet. John’s absence was not so surprising, he was probably playing at a friend’s house, but his wife was almost invariably home at that time of day. He asked around but nobody had seen her and by the time he had located his son and returned home, it was very late. He then carried out a thorough systematic search of the house itself and, on the top floor, a converted attic, he found a door which was locked on the inside. Panic stricken, he broke it down and the picture of what greeted his horrified eyes was to stay with him for the rest of his life. His wife, covered in blood, lay on the floor. The fingers of her right hand clutched a kitchen knife, both her wrists had been slashed, and there were knife wounds all over the body. As the bolt of the door had been shot and the window locked from the inside, the only explanation was suicide (or so the police saw it). But what a suicide!

  Mrs. Darnley must have been seized by a sudden and extremely violent fit to have ended her life like that. No one, including her husband and son, could think of any reasonable explanation for her to have done it. And, sadly, from that day onwards Victor Darnley had sunk into a deep melancholy. By nature taciturn he became a recluse, doing little but tend his garden and look after his house. His business rapidly plummeted, and he was left with no alternative but to rent out part of his house. He and his son occupied the ground floor, and the two upper floors were let. The first two tenants left after six months, without warning or explanation. Then came the war, and the army commandeered the house, which meant, of course, all manner of comings and goings. When peace finally came, Victor once again rented out the upper floors, this time to a young couple who were delighted to make their happy home there. But it didn’t last long, for the wife was soon admitted to hospital with a nervous breakdown, and refused to return to the apartment. Other couples moved in, but no one stayed. The reasons for leaving were always the same: the strange atmosphere, a sense of mounting tension and - not least - eerie noises coming from the attic. By now, the house had acquired a sinister reputation, and Victor had great difficulty finding new tenants. The two floors had been unoccupied for four months, but apparently a Mr. and Mrs. Latimer were about to move in - news that provided a major topic of village conversation.

  “It’s gone now, but I definitely saw something, and it came from the fourth window along, where the suicide occurred. James. Hey! Wake up! What are you thinking about?”

  “Your imagination’s playing you tricks. You know nobody has set foot in that room since – ”

  My sister broke in abruptly. “That reminds me James, do you know the couple who are moving in?”

  “Mr. and Mrs. Latimer, that’s all I can tell you. No one knows anything about them at all. If they did, at the speed that rumours circulate in this village, mother would have known ages ago.”

  Elizabeth shivered, moving away from the window. “That house gives me the shivers, don’t ever ask me to live there. Poor John! He really hasn’t had much luck, has he? His mother goes off her head and kills herself, and now his father seems to have lost his marbles as well. I wonder how he stays sane in that dreadful house.”

  “True enough, but John does have nerves of steel. Why, even during the war and the bombardments, he never lost his grip, and -”

  Again she interrupted. “James, that’s enough, please don’t talk about it any more. The war ended three years ago, and I can’t bear being reminded about it.”

  “That’s not what I was trying to say. I only meant that John was a decent fellow, a serious chap that you could count on any time, someone who would make anyone happy.”

  “I don’t want to hear any more! I know what you’re trying to do! I like him a lot, but….”

  “It’s Henry you love. You love him, he loves you, you love each other so much you’re both afraid to say so.” I put on my jacket. “But luckily, your big brother is here and he’ll work it all out for you!”

  She grabbed me by the shoulders, and shot me a look that was simultaneously grateful and anxious.

  “Don’t be too direct, James, he might think I’d asked you to.”

  “Which is exactly what you have done!” I said in an exasperated tone. “Don’t worry, I’m not a fool. I know how to handle this. You might as well go and tell our parents right away that you’re engaged.”

  And with that I left.

  II

  NIGHTMARE

  I took my key with me, because I expected to be back very late. As I was closing the front door, I had a distinct feeling of danger. It appeared groundless but, although I quickly got a grip on myself, I was unable to shake it off entirely. I looked carefully around. The thickening fog reduced visibility, and the feeble illumination from the street lamp only served to accentuate the disturbing character of the Darnley residence. I peered up at the ghostly house, searching for the faintest glimmer of light, but in vain, for it was plunged in darkness.

  I shook my head, pushed the gate and set out for the dirt path, hoping to get my thoughts straight. The simplest explanations are often the best. Let’s see. After Mrs. Darnley kills herself, her husband starts to lose both his taste for living and his reason. Shortly thereafter, noises start coming from the attic, and lights are seen. Before Elizabeth spoke to me about it, Henry had already mentioned it. He had even question
ed John who seemed puzzled, because to his knowledge nobody had been up there since the death of his mother.

  What then? The solution is glaringly obvious: under cover of night, Victor goes up to the haunted room, hoping to see the ghost of his wife. Poor man, I can see the scene clearly: he climbs the stairs to the attic with a trembling step, candle in hand. Wearing his long white nightshirt and nightcap, he goes to meet his wife, whose death he has never accepted. That’s pretty well it.

  By now, I had covered the hundred or so yards which separated our residence from that of the Whites. In time-honoured fashion, I gave three short, sharp, knocks on the door.

  Henry did not take long to answer.

  “James, good timing, I was starting to get bored.”

  Although short, Henry was more muscular than most, which gave him a stocky profile. His wide face, topped with a dark mass of thick curly hair parted in the middle, radiated both strength and warmth.

  We shook hands firmly, and went into the drawing room.

  “To be honest with you,” I said as casually as I could, “I didn’t know what to do with myself tonight, either.”

  “Let’s drink to coincidence!” said Henry, with a friendly wink.

  I sank into an armchair with a conspiratorial smile, somewhat ashamed of my deception. Henry went to the bar. I heard him grumble.

  “The traitor!” the traitor being his father. “He’s put his best whisky in the desk again!”

  He rattled the desk handles.

  “Locked! Incredible! No trust! But if he thinks this ridiculous little lock can stop me….”

  He took a paper clip and, with a quick wrist motion, opened the door. Few locks could resist his agile fingers. I remembered his first experiments on cupboard doors where mother had stored pots of jam.