'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 smoke- screen 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
No answer.
'Two!'
Deep booming derisive laughter.
'Three!'
No sound.
Parker motioned to the policemen 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.
Where Is Thy Sting?
BY JAMES HOLDING
Phobia has become an accepted term in this day of parlor-psychiatry. Yet, defined as an irrational fear, is it acceptable as a cause of death? On a death certificate, for example, would 'Apiphobia' be acceptable to the coroner?
