The Killer | Page 6

end of a period my host returned, and without apology or
explanation resumed his seat and took up his remarks where he had left
them.
The girl disappeared somewhere between the table and the sitting room.
Old Man Hooper offered me a cigar, and sat down deliberately to
entertain me. I had an uncomfortable feeling that he was also amusing
himself, as though I were being played with and covertly sneered at.
Hooper's politeness and suavity concealed, and well concealed, a bitter
irony. His manner was detached and a little precise. Every few
moments he burst into a flurry of activity with the fly whacker, darting
here and there as his eyes fell upon one of the insects; but returning
always calmly to his discourse with an air of never having moved from
his chair. He talked to me of Praxiteles, among other things. What
should an Arizona cowboy know of Praxiteles? and why should any
one talk to him of that worthy Greek save as a subtle and hidden
expression of contempt? That was my feeling. My senses and mental
apperceptions were by now a little on the raw.
That, possibly, is why I noticed the very first chirp of another frog
outside. It continued, and I found myself watching my host covertly.
Sure enough, after a few repetitions I saw subtle signs of uneasiness, of
divided attention; and soon, again without apology or explanation, he
glided from the room. And at the same instant the old Mexican servitor
came and pretended to fuss with the lamps.
My curiosity was now thoroughly aroused, but I could guess no means
of satisfying it. Like the bedroom, this parlour gave out only on the
interior court. The flash of lanterns against the ceiling above reached
me. All I could do was to wander about looking at the objects in the
cabinet and the pictures on the walls. There was, I remember, a set of
carved ivory chessmen and an engraving of the legal trial of some
English worthy of the seventeenth century. But my hearing was alert,
and I thought to hear footsteps outside. At any rate, the chirp of the frog

came to an abrupt end.
Shortly my host returned and took up his monologue. It amounted to
that. He seemed to delight in choosing unusual subjects and then
backing me into a corner with an array of well-considered phrases that
allowed me no opening for reply nor even comment. In one of my
desperate attempts to gain even a momentary initiative I asked him,
apropos of the piano, whether his daughter played.
"Do you like music?" he added, and without waiting for a reply seated
himself at the instrument.
He played to me for half an hour. I do not know much about music; but
I know he played well and that he played good things. Also that, for the
first time, he came out of himself, abandoned himself to feeling. His
close-cropped head swayed from side to side; his staring, wildcat eyes
half closed----
He slammed shut the piano and arose, more drily precise than ever.
"I imagine all that is rather beyond your apperceptions," he remarked,
"and that you are ready for your bed. Here is a short document I would
have you take to your room for perusal. Good-night."
He tendered me a small, folded paper which I thrust into the breast
pocket of my shirt along with the note handed me earlier in the evening
by the girl. Thus dismissed I was only too delighted to repair to my
bedroom.
There I first carefully drew together the curtains; then examined the
first of the papers I drew from my pocket. It proved to be the one from
the girl, and read as follows:
I am here against my will. I am not this man's daughter. For God's sake
if you can help me, do so. But be careful for he is a dangerous man. My
room is the last one on the left wing of the court. I am constantly
guarded. I do not know what you can do. The case is hopeless. I cannot
write more. I am watched.

I unfolded the paper Hooper himself had given me. It was similar in
appearance to the other, and read:
I am held a prisoner. This man Hooper is not my father but he is
vindictive and cruel and dangerous. Beware for yourself. I live in the
last room in the left wing. I am watched, so cannot write more.
The handwriting of the two documents was the same. I stared at one
paper and then at the other, and for a half hour I thought all the
thoughts appropriate to the occasion. They led me nowhere, and would
not interest you.
CHAPTER IV
After a time I