The House of Fear

CHAPTER I“COWARD’S FARE” Under the circumstances, McHugh would probably have been wiser never to have attempted such a revival. Had he cared to open his ears he might have heard warnings in plenty, for Woodford’s Theater had become a tradition in the profession, an evil one, a menace, in short, for the superstitious. It is difficult to trace such beliefs to a reasonable source. Few along Broadway attempted it. The stock company, which five years ago had opened the house for a winter’s campaign, offered sufficient testimony. If there was nothing more than rumor behind the theater’s reputation, why, people asked, had that company within a week abandoned its lease and forfeited its guaranty? Why had its leading man on the final night rushed from the stage, his eyes fixed, shaken throughout as if by some experience beyond human comprehension? Such questions remained unanswered, while other stories persisted, gathering about a black cat which had mysteriously made itself felt and heard, frightening the timid, puzzling the better-controlled, fit ting disturbingly into the sombre history of the place. So Broadway accepted as fact Woodford’s unhealthy atmosphere, avoiding it discreetly. Arthur McHugh was the logical exception. An aggressive, ambitious Irishman, he had fought his way from the headquarters detective force to a managerial throne from which he wielded a supreme power over many actors and actresses and plays. He went his stubborn and successful way, untrammeled by the gossip of the profession. Therefore, when he conceived the idea of reopening Woodford’s with a revival of “Coward’s Fare,” he remembered only that half a century ago the play had placed the crown of dollars on the theater and had made its old director, Bertrand Woodford, famous. He did not bother to recall that in the end it had caused Woodford’s death, or that, during the forty years since, prosperity had strangely neglected the house. Richard Quaile, chosen by McHugh to make a modern version of the play, paused opposite the theater one fall afternoon and appraised it curiously. His script was completed. Nothing remained but the arranging of the lease. He was on his way to McHugh’s office now, and that, he understood, was the purpose of his summons. Quaile was not of a credulous disposition. Successful as a playwright and with a plentiful income, he was too completely interested in the world about him to bother with abstractions. But he had heard the gossip concerning Woodford’s, and, as he stared across the street, he wondered at McHugh’s courage. Woodford’s blind exterior appeared to repel the thought of intrusion. It had an air of asking to be left alone in its decay. The anxious northward march of theatrical prosperity had long deserted it. On one side it was flanked by a towering loft building. A motion-picture house nestled impudently close on the other. From such surroundings, although it was no more than sixty years old, the structure projected an atmosphere of antiquity as arresting as that which reaches one from a medieval castle in some foreign countryside. From the beginning, indeed, it furnished a plausible setting for the tragedy which, during so long within its dingy walls, was to challenge reason with a serene and provocative assurance. Quaile could not foresee that, but he could and did look back. It was as if the crumbling facade of the theater had forced the past palpably into his mind. Passers-by jostled him, but he continued to gaze thoughtfully across the street, reconstructing the building into the most famous playhouse in America, fancying its tired eyes sparkling with light, seeing its slender columns divide eager crowds. of men and women in the dress of another period. Then the end of all that and the commencement of Woodford’s evil reputation came back to him — the extraordinary death forty years ago of its director, Bertrand Woodford. His imagination of an author contrived an active picture. He could see the packed auditorium and the curtain rising on “Coward’s Fare,” revived to show Woodford in his greatest, his favorite rôle. He saw the actor limp on, ill, but too jealous and vindictive to resign his part to an understudy. He watched the man struggle along with the genius of which his disability could not entirely strip him. But it was on that last destructive moment that Quaile’s mind lingered uncomfortably. He experienced almost with the intensity of an actual spectator the clamorous excitement which had filled the house when Woodford, at the height of his most impassioned scene, had toppled to the stage, had lain still, had failed for the first time to respond to the emotions of his audience. Details scarcely heard, dimly remembered from the mass of gossip, obtruded themselves. The black cat, he recalled, Woodford’s constant companion off stage, had rushed from the wings and curled itself on the motionless body. It had fought and scratched tigerishly when anxious hands had tried to snatch it off. It had remained close to its master until his burial. Quaile shook his head, turned, and went on to his appointment. His brief view of Woodford’s desolation had reduced his enthusiasm for the plan. The place, even from the outside, was gloomier than he had imagined, probably gloomy enough to account for such stories. But if it had driven into his brain these unpalatable memories, it would almost certainly breed trouble should McHugh select for his cast men or women of a particularly nervous or sensational temperament. He found the atmosphere of the manager’s office restorative. He stepped from the elevator into a hallway crowded with the prosperous and the unfortunate, many young and a fraction old: leads,ingénues, character people, comedians — all seekers and all forewarned that in this office success would welcome only a few. He nodded at those he recognized and passed into the reception-room, whose broader spaces were similarly taxed. He marveled that McHugh could be the lodestone of this expectant multitude. He knew it was only ten years since the man had left the detective bureau for minute beginnings on the Rialto. That had been through the influence of a manager for whom he had ferreted an important case to a successful and profitable conclusion. Since then, because of a natural, if incoherent, instinct for the dramatic, he had discounted his lack of education and had taken his rank with the handful of large producers. Now he sat, czarlike, in a secluded office, forbidden to the many, a privilege for the elect. Quaile noticed a man who elbowed his way through the crowd toward the door. He was slender and tall, so that above the bobbing heads Quaile could see his face, striking, nearly handsome, yet a trifle too pallid. Moreover, it recorded at this moment a vague dissatisfaction, an uncertainty of purpose. Quaile nodded pleasantly in that direction and the man altered his course and approached. Quaile stretched out his hand. “Hello, Carlton,” he said. “You’re in a hurry.” “I came up to see McHugh,” Carlton answered. “Can’t find out whether he’s in, and I’ve another appointment. He’s offered me a contract for Woodford’s part in this revival of ‘Coward’s Fare’ you’re putting on in the old barn.” “You’ll do it well,” Quaile said. “Looks like a long winter. Sentiment will draw big audiences.” He watched the uncertainty in the other’s face increase. Reluctantly he admitted its cause. He guessed that Carlton’s mind harbored the unhealthy gossip which centered about the ancient house. He gathered that to an extent it over shadowed his satisfaction at the prospect of a profitable engagement. “You don’t look overjoyed,” he added dryly. “I’m glad of the job,” Carlton answered. “I’m no fool, but it’s curious, Quaile. I ran into a girl only last night who played with that stock company at Woodford’s five or six years ago. Actually, she tried to argue me out of accepting the contract. Talked about Woodford’s influence persisting and resenting the presence of the living in his theater. Uncomfortable feeling about the dressing-rooms and all that. A lot of rot, too, about Woodford’s black cat. She said Bertrand Woodford had worked himself to death rather than let any man play his part, and a lot of people felt he never would let any man play it now that he was dead. You know, she seemed to believe the nonsense. Funny how such stories cling. I suppose it’s because he made such a bad reputation for jealousy and temper. Give you my word, I thought no manager would take another chance with the place.” Quaile grinned. “I’d back Arthur McHugh against the meanest-dispositioned spook that ever walked.” Carlton’s laugh irritated Quaile. It lacked conviction. It was prophetic. It transferred to him some of the other’s uncertainty. “I’m off,” the actor said. “I’ll see McHugh in the morning. Good luck to the sentimental engagement.” Quaile turned away, facing the reception-room again. He glanced about. Then his perfunctory interest swayed toward a girl who sat near the inner door. Her back was turned, so that he could see little more than the glow of light hair beneath a hat of pronounced simplicity here. She appeared unaware of those moving nearby. She was bent forward, as if eager to pass the door, which remained closed, a stubborn and provoking barrier. Quaile watched her for some time while his memory stirred. Her withdrawal sharpened his interest. Surely he had seen the graceful figure before. He must pass that door. If he turned there her face would no longer be hidden. He stepped forward. He placed his hand on the knob. He opened the door a little and turned. And now he knew that he had seen her, more than once on the stage, and from time to time casually at dinners or in offices like this. He held out his hand. Recognition drove the lassitude from her eyes. “You’ve not forgotten me, Miss Morgan?” Her smile was charming. “I never forget a friend at court. Mr. McHugh sent for me. He said it had something to do with you.” The announcement reached Quaile pleasantly. He had congenial recollections of her ability. Moreover, her quiet gray eyes indicated a serviceable lack of temperament. “It’s the lead, then, in rather a unique revival. I’m glad you’ll be with us. How long have you waited?” “Since four o’clock. It’s inexcusable. Do you think he’s ever coming?” “Probably here now,” Quaile laughed. “He has as many entrances and exits as a criminal. If he’s inside I’ll tell him how you’ve suffered.” With his hand on the knob he turned back. He glanced at her quizzically. “By the way, you’re not afraid of ghosts?” “It isn’t ‘Hamlet!’” she cried gaily. Still smiling, he shook his head and went through into the presence of a small, neat young woman who attended to McHugh’s correspondence, and, simultaneously, did her best for the chewing-gum manufacturers. “Hello, Ethel. Boss here yet? He sent for me.” Her jaw rested momentarily, permitting her mouth to expand in a grin of fellowship, of perfect understanding. She nodded at the door through which Quaile had just entered. “That’s what they all say, the poor nuts. And I have to fib until I’m ashamed to go to church on Sundays. Yep. Came in ten minutes ago.” “Busy?” “Yep. Just took him the evening paper.” “Did you tell him how many were waiting?” “Yep. Said let ’em wait and turn ’em over to Morley when he comes in.” “Does he know Miss Morgan’s outside?” “Nope. Didn’t know myself. Say, he’s expecting her.” “Bring her in here,” Quaile said, “and I’ll tell him. You feel I dare beard the lion?” “Oh, you go on, Mr. Quaile. He thinks you’re great.” Quaile crossed the room and knocked at a mahogany door. Always on approaching this presence he experienced an amused humility. The voice that reached him through the heavy panels was querulous, expressive of an outraged solitude.