The Haunting Hand

The Haunting Hand

Otto Penzler’s Locked Room Library

W. Adolphe Roberts

Introduction

The Haunting Hand is the first novel by W(alter) Adolphe Roberts (1886–1962) and is generally credited with being the first mystery novel by a Black writer. It is one of five mystery novels produced in a prolific career spent mainly as a journalist, travel writer, and activist on behalf of Jamaica.

Born a primarily white octoroon in Kingston, Jamaica, his father was a successful businessman, largely as a silk merchant, planter, and clergyman, providing sufficient wealth to have his son privately educated. The young Roberts moved to the United States in 1904. He tried his hand at poetry but made his career as a journalist, including working at the prestigious Daily Gleaner when he was only sixteen. He then was hired by a New York newspaper to serve as a war correspondent in France during World War I and began an affair with the famous sociologist Margaret Sanger in 1916.

He returned to New York to take over the editorship of Ainslee’s, a magazine of fiction and poetry, where he championed Edna St. Vincent Millay, before joining the staff of the hugely successful Hearst’s International Magazine.

He became a successful essayist, historian, and lecturer who also wrote nearly a dozen novels. Curiously, few of his books, whether fiction or non-fiction, are set in Jamaica. The fact is curious because Roberts became perhaps the era’s most vocal supporter for Jamaican independence from the British government, founding the Jamaican Progressive League in New York in 1936, lecturing, and writing countless pamphlets in support of self-governance.

For his efforts, the Queen of England awarded him the prestigious order of Member of the British Empire in 1961. He had made enemies in the movement, however, who doubted that Jamaica was ready and organized enough for independence when it was declared the following year and the new Jamaican Constitution banned him from any involvement in Jamaica’s parliamentary affairs.

He had maintained dual citizenship and returned to live in Jamaica when he was sixty-five and died in 1962, the year his dream and efforts succeeded.

His political crusade largely ended his career as a novelist, as he wrote only four more mysteries after The Haunting Hand (1926)—The Mind Reader (1929) and The Top-Floor Killer (1935), under his own name, and two as Stephen Endicott, Mayor Harding of New York (1931) and The Strange Case of Bishop Sterling (1932).

The beginning of The Haunting Hand convincingly prepares the reader for a supernatural novel when a seemingly impossible event occurs. Margot Anstruther, a beautiful aspiring film actress, has thrown a party in her one-room New York City apartment for the cast of her movie and the director, Frederick Stoner, who has less-than-honorable intentions for her. She has also invited her boyfriend, Gene Valery, who adores her.

After everyone has gone, she collapses into her bed and lights a cigarette, dropping the match onto the floor. When she reaches down to be certain it has been extinguished, a hand reaches out from under her bed to grind it out. Petrified at who could be under her bed, convinced it must by a psychopath intending to kill her, she finally manages the courage to look and sees that no one is there. She reaches for the telephone and calls Gene, asking him to hurry over, speaking in French to fool the lurking murderer. When he arrives, he searches under the bed, and the entire apartment, to be certain no one is hidden in a corner, a closet, or anywhere else.

They call the police, who also do a thorough search but are convinced she was having a nightmare and are dismissive until one of them swears he has just seen the same thing.

When the tough and skeptical homicide detective shows up, she tells him of the young woman who had previously occupied the room who had walked away one day and was never seen again, and of another tenant in the rooming house who did the same thing almost immediately after the woman vanished.

Margot is soon able to conquer her fear and determines to solve the mystery, just as Sherlock Holmes would.

Roberts is able to sustain suspense in the early stages of the novel, and then presents Margot as a bright detective figure, both in terms of her observations and especially her deductions. A romance story is woven throughout.

It must be admitted that there are moments when the prose leaves a bit to be desired. While describing Gene, Roberts writes, At time his smile quickened his face to actual beauty.

In another scene, he notes, . . . Margot stood motionless, with an intangible, vague wonder in her groping mind.

Like many impossible crime stories and locked room mysteries, not to mention the hocus-pocus of skilled magicians, the author has established the notion that there could be no rational explanation for a seemingly other-worldly occurrence, only to explain how it could have been done—and that the girl really had not been sawed in half.

—Otto Penzler

CHAPTER I

MOVIE MEN AND MANNEQUINS

Mid October, with its tang, and the blazoned glory of its skies and sun and tawny trees! Margot Anstruther thanked a kind fate that she could live these brilliant, exhilarating days out of doors. Had she been confined to office or classroom, her restless spirit would have carried her body with it, in reckless escape. Long Island—where the Superfilm Company studio spread over the landscape—although not precisely the Maine woods or sea, or the open spaces of her own wide-flung West, at least spelled trees and grass and fresh air.

Margot stood on the diminutive roof-garden of her New York home, watching the moon rise over the house-tops. It was eight o’clock and her guests would soon arrive. She hoped that Gene Valery would come before the others. It was pleasant to be loved so ardently by Gene, but she surmised that it would be pleasanter if she could love as ardently in return. At any rate, his friendship was invaluable. He was the only one with whom she could share her mental gymnastics, the aspect of her mind which others would regard as rather too serious for human nature’s daily food.

She had Gene to thank for her tiny roof-garden. It was one of those quaint affairs, a covering built over the yard, to be found in many an old New York house. Gene had rigged up a trellis and had brought potted palms and a South American hammock. For to-night he had hung Japanese lanterns. Margot had already lighted them. That small, mock garden took the curse, so to speak, off her lodging-house quarters, which consisted of one large, high-ceilinged room, in which she slept, ate—her breakfasts—and had her being.

She cut short her transport over the moon, stepped across the door-sill into the room, and cast critical eyes over her domain. A brass bed in one far corner was concealed by a screen, which Gene had made and she had decorated. The effect was rather good. She had recently acquired a divan, with many cushions, large and soft and gaily colored. Against one wall was a chest of drawers, a Chinese scarf over its battered top, a brass jar at one end, and a pewter candlestick with orange candle, at the other. The walls were a muddy gray, but there was a Japanese print here and there, and bright cretonne at the windows and on the wicker chairs.

Flanking the old-fashioned fireplace were her bookcases, built and painted by Gene. As catholic in her literary tastes as in her choice of friends, Margot’s books presented a varied diet; fiction ranging from Kipling to Anatole France, poetry from Dante to Millay. A desk-table and an old console table—her own acquisitions—with carved wood book-racks for a few modern novels, and a bit of brass or copper; and two much worn but softly blended Oriental rugs thrown over the antiquated carpet, almost hiding its ugliness. Margot had achieved distinction, beauty and a subtle charm, in a room which previous tenants of the old lodging-house must have accepted as irretrievably barren and sordid.

She glanced in her four-foot mirror and patted her hair. It looked redder than usual in the light from the candles and from the yellow-shaded electric lamp over by the table. She flicked a speck of dust from the mirror-frame, gave a little twist to her soft, straight hung dress of corn color silk, then glanced toward the lanterns swinging in the evening breeze. Yes—it was all rather nice, but she was especially grateful for the roof-garden. Of course, a chilly October night could not be expected to lend exotic warmth to the scene, but in the room, the logs would be burning.

Six weeks since she had first met her expected guests: Frederick Stoner, the director of the Superfilm Company, with his strange, pale eyes; May Cheshire, the little blond girl who had been the first to inspire Margot with a desire to get into pictures; Lulu Leinster, the prize-beauty-contest winner from Texas, whose large brown eyes, beautifully chiseled lips and exquisite skin and yellow hair would have been assets in any profession. These three, and others, men and girls of the company, whose admiring friendship Margot had won during the past six weeks of work in the great studio of the Superfilm Company. Gene Valery was an older friend. That he happened to be an efficient young camera man with the same company was a pleasing coincidence.

Six weeks! A mere point in time, but they had been constructive weeks. To her own satisfaction and to that of her director, it had been proved that she had histrionic talent of a high order and that she screened admirably. Of no less significance the fact that she knew now, beyond all doubt, not only what she could do, but what she wanted to do. The absurd thing was that she should originally have chosen science as her profession! Mentally equipped she might be for scientific work, but oh, how much more interesting it was to act! Certainly more remunerative. That morning in June, when she had applied for work and been taken on as an extra by the International, had supplied not only a little extra cash for her summer vacation but the fillip to her vague ambition to be a screen actress. And here she was, at twenty-five, launched on her career.

Her laboratory work would not be wasted; nothing excellent was ever wasted, she knew, and she was grateful for any acquisitive experience which she owed to her college course. But mental activities on the side, she would regard as a hobby; for an actress she was by temperament, and a good actress she proposed to be by intelligent use of her powers.

Funny, how Stoner had engaged her that day, and given her a real part in the new picture, A Toreador’s Love! Funny how he had chosen her, instead of the lovely Lulu, for apparently no good reason! When Lulu proceeded to weep and look like a piece of broken Dresden china, he had weakened to the extent of giving the latter a very small role, but it was still a mystery to Margot why he had given her the important part for which she and Lulu—and many others—had applied, in response to an advertisement. She had forgotten, or hadn’t had time, to tell Gene about it. She must remember to tell him sometime. It would amuse him and perhaps he’d be able to dispel the vague sense of mystery aroused in her by Stoner, with his strange pale eyes, from that first moment when she had given him her name and address.

Margot smiled, recalling Gene’s absurd jealousy of Frederick Stoner. Ridiculous to suppose that she could ever give the director a second thought except in relation to her work. He wasn’t a bad sort, really, but his rather brutish good looks repelled her. And he was a good director, although, as everyone had told her, he belonged to the old school of directors; very old-fashioned in his methods. There were few, if any, of his kind left in the motion picture industry, for which those working under him were devoutly thankful. Stoner’s notion of discipline was to shout his orders and conduct himself generally as if everything were melodrama.

Gene was rather annoying with his jealous suspicions. She didn’t dare tell him that she endured Stoner’s boring attentions as much for Gene’s sake as for her own. Stoner had never liked Gene, and now he made his dislike very evident. If she were to let it become obvious that she preferred Gene’s friendship to Stoner’s, the director would be quite capable of discharging him and queering him with other directors and managers. Men often did contemptible things out of jealousy. If she explained all this to Gene, ten to one he would resign, just when his chances for promotion were so good. Gene was a rank outsider. He had been taken on almost by accident and retained because he was so amazingly clever with the camera. But all the cleverness in the world wouldn’t help you if you were an outsider and an influential director considered you undesirable.

Speaking of jealousy! She smiled again, remembering that the only member of the cast of A Toreador’s Love, who had declined her invitation for to-night, was the star, Corinne Delamar. To be sure, she was younger than Corinne—somewhat—and perhaps prettier, but there was no reason for fearing that she had designs upon the director. Margot had treated Corinne with consistent and amiable courtesy, but had made no attempt to overcome her antagonism, by catering to her up-stage exactions. In token of her goodwill and to celebrate her success in the Superfilm’s new picture, she had asked them all to her informal home for a party. The word covered a multitude of sins—of excess or boredom. Silly of Corinne not to come! Silly of her to advertise her jealousy of Margot! There had been gossip about it already, some of it a trifle malicious.

At that point in her rapid reflections, Gene appeared, carrying a bunch of yellow roses. He brought candy also, and cigarettes, and a bottle or two under his arm. Gene was tall, clear-skinned and plain of feature, except for his blue eyes. He was well knit, had brilliant teeth and a smile which made one forget that his mouth was too wide and his nose crooked—it had been broken in a football game. At times his smile quickened his face to actual beauty.

With bright eyes smiling in unison with her red, parted lips, Margot watched him unwrap his packages. Then he stood looking at her, longing to take her in his arms, and daring only to stare at her adoringly.

You are a darling, Gene! Her voice cooed at him, and she took a step nearer, smiling at him.

Well, that wasn’t so bad in the way of a greeting, his expansive smile told her.

And you are a darling—an exquisite darling!

She went a little nearer to him.

If you won’t muss me, and won’t get too rapturous, I’ll let you kiss me—once—just to give you a good start for the evening.

Sweetheart! Impetuously he tried to put an arm around her, then, gingerly, as she drew away with a laugh of warning, he put his hands on her shoulders and bending down, kissed her lips. It was a kiss pregnant with emotion but short-lived, as she freed herself, with another gay laugh.

Look, Gene! You haven’t even noticed my new divan and my lovely cushions.

He glanced at the divan without interest, turned his gaze back to Margot, and seeing her mouth droop in disappointment, he made an effort to smile approval.

Bully, darling! It adds fifty per cent to this room. His eyes roved about. Color scheme’s fine! His wandering glance reached the corner where the screen did not entirely conceal the large brass bed. Why on earth don’t you get rid of that incubus?

Margot’s smile clouded. Now, you don’t imagine I keep it for sheer love of the beastly thing? I told Mrs. Bellew that I was going to buy a divan, and she promised to remove that monster over there. But when the divan arrived the other day, she told me I’d have to keep the bed till she could have one of her rooms done over. I can’t throw the darn thing out the window. It makes me so mad!

Sorry I mentioned it, dearest. Don’t bother about it. That screen hides it and the room’s so huge you can forget that corner.

Anyway, she smiled cheerfully, I’ve managed to cover her hideous old Wilton, except in spots, especially that torn place near the bed. Dad sent the Orientals from home. Worn a bit, but the coloring’s lovely. She wouldn’t take up her old carpet. Says the paint’s off the floor and the boards cracked and rough. I don’t believe she’s had that carpet up for years.

By the way, said Gene irrelevantly, Stoner coming to-night?

Why, of course he is!

Precisely—why—‘of course’?

"How silly of you, Gene! I can’t snub Stoner, and it would have been worse than a snub not to ask him to-night. Why, he gave me the job