last, I took him to the door and pointedto the keyhole. In English, Italian and sign language I told him ratheremphatically that I wanted the key to that door. At last he was willingto admit that he understood my questions. He shook his head. He hadnever had the key to that door. Yes, he knew that there was such a door,but he had never been on the other side. It was very old. Perhaps hisancestors understood about it, but they were all dead. He made me tired,so much so that I rested by placing a hand on the butt of the upperhinge. I knew that he was deceiving me. Lived there all his life andnever saw the door open!
"And you have no key to that door?" I repeated.
"No. I have no key."
"Who has the key?"
"The owner of the house."
"But I own it."
"Yes, you are the master; but I mean the one who owns it all the time."
"So, the various masters do not really buy the place?"
"They buy it, but they come and go."
"But the owner keeps on selling it and owning it?"
"Yes."
"Must be a profitable business. And who owns it?"
"Donna Marchesi."
"I think I met her yesterday in Sorona."
"Yes, that is where she lives."
The storm had passed. Sorona was only two miles away, on the other sideof the mountain. The cellar, the door, the mysterious uncertainty on theother side intrigued me. I told the man that I would be back by supper,and I went to my bedroom to change, preparatory to making an afternooncall.
In the room I found my hand black with oil.
And that told me a good many things, as it was the hand that had restedagainst the upper hinge of the door. I washed the hand, changed myclothes and drove my car to Sorona.
* * * * *
Fortunately, the Donna Marchesi was at home. I might have met herbefore, but I now saw her ethereal beauty for the first time. At least,it seemed ethereal at the first moment. In some ways she was the mostbeautiful woman that I had ever seen: skin white as milk, hair a tawnyred, piled in great masses on her head, and eyes of a peculiar green,with pupils that were slots instead of circles. She wore her nails long,and they were tinted red to match the Titian of her hair. She seemedsurprized to have me call on her, and more surprized to hear of myerrand.
"You bought the villa?" she asked.
"Yes. Though, when I bought it, I did not know that you were the owner.The agent never stated whom he was acting for."
"I know," she said with a smile. "Franco is peculiar that way. He alwayspretends that he owns the place."
"No doubt he has used it more than once."
"I fear so. The place seems to be unfortunate. I sell it with a reserveclause. The owner must live there. And no one seems to want to stay; sothe place reverts back to me."
"It seems to be an old place."
"Very old. It has been in my family for generations. I have tried to getrid of it, but what can I do when the young men will not stay?"
She shrugged her shoulders expressively. I countered with,
"Perhaps if they knew, as I do, that you owned the property, they wouldbe content to stay, for ever, in Sorona."
"Prettily said," she answered. Then the room became silent, and I heardher heavy breathing, like the deep purr of a cat.
"They come and go," she said at last.
"And, when they go, you sell to another?" I asked.
"Naturally, and with the hope that one will stay."
"I have come for the key," I said bluntly, "the key to the cellar door."
"Are you sure you want it?"
"Absolutely! It is my villa and my cellar and my door. I want the key. Iwant to see what is on the other side of the door."
And then it was that I saw the pupils of her eyes narrow to livid slits.She looked at me for a second, for five, and then opening a drawer in acabinet near her chair, she took out the key and handed it to me. It wasa tool worthy of the door that it was supposed to open, being fullyeight inches long and a pound in weight.
Taking it, I thanked her and said good-bye. Fifteen minutes later I wasback, profuse in my apologies: I was temperamental, I explained, and Ifrequently changed my mind. Whatever was on the other side of the doorcould stay there, as far as I was concerned. Then again I kissed herhand farewell.
On the side street I passed through the door of a locksmith and waitedwhile he completed a key. He was following a wax impression of theoriginal key. An hour later I was on the way back to the villa, with thekey in my pocket, a key that I was sure would unlock the door, and I wasconfident that the lady with the cat eyes felt sure that I had lost allinterest in that door and what was beyond it.
The full moon was just appearing over the mountains when I drove my carup to the villa. I was tired, but happy. Taking the candlestick in myhand, which candlestick was handed to me with a deep bow by the oldwoman, I ascended the stairs to my bedroom. And soon I was fast asleep.
* * * * *
I awoke with a start. The moon was still shining. It was midnight. Iheard, or thought I heard, a deep moaning. It sounded a little likewaves beating on a rockbound coast. Then it ceased and was replaced by amusical element that came in certain stately measures. Those sounds werein the room, but they came from far away; only by straining my sense ofsound to the utmost could I hear anything.
Slippers on my feet, flashlight in my hand and the key in the pocket ofmy dressing-gown, I slowly descended the stairs. Loud snores from theservants' room told, or seemed to tell, of their deep slumbers. Downinto the cellar I went and put the key into the hole of the lock. Thekey turned easily--no rust there--the springs and the tumblers had beenwell oiled, like the hinges. It was evident that the door had been usedoften. Turning the light on the hinges, I saw what had made my handblack with oil. Earnestly I damned the servants. They knew about thedoor. They knew what was on the other side!
Just as I was about to open the door I heard a woman's voice singing inItalian; it sounded like a selection from an opera. It was followed byapplause, and then a moaning, and one shrill cry, as though someone hadbeen hurt. There was no doubt now as to where the sounds that I heard inmy room had come from; they had come from the other side of the door.There was a mystery there for me to solve. But I was not ready to solveit; so I turned the key noiselessly, and with the door locked, tiptoedback to my bed.
There I tried to put two and two together. They made five, seven, amillion vague admixtures of impossible results, all filled with weirdforebodings. But never did they make four, and till they did, I knew theanswers to be wrong, for two and two had to make four.
Many changes of masters! One after another they came and bought anddisappeared. A whitewashed wall. What secrets were covered with thatwhitewash? A door in a cellar. And what deviltry went on behind it? Akey and a well-oiled lock, and servants that knew everything. In vainthe question came to me. _What is back of the door?_ There was no readyanswer. But, Donna Marchesi knew! Was it her voice that I had heard? Sheknew almost everything about it, but there was one thing that I knew andshe did not. She did not know that I could pass through the door andfind out what was on the other side. She did not know that I had a key.
The next day I pleaded indisposition and spent most of the hours idlingand drowsing in my chamber. Not till nearly midnight did I venture down.The servants were certainly asleep that time. A dose of chloral in theirwine had attended to the certainty of their slumbers. Fully dressed,with an automatic in my pocket, I reached the cellar and opened thedoor. It swung noiselessly on its well-greased hinges. The darkness onthe other side was the blackness of hell. An indescribable odor came tome, a prison smell and with it the soft half sob, half laugh of sleepingchildren, dreaming in their sleep, and not happy.
I flashed the light around the room. It was not a room but a cavern, acave that extended far into the distance, the roof supported by stonepillars, set at regular intervals. As far as my light would carry I sawthe long rows of white columns.
And to each pillar was bound a man, by chains. They were resting on thestone floor, twenty or more of them, and all asleep. Snores, grunts andweary sighs came from them, but not a single eyelid opened. Even when Iflashed the light in their faces their eyes were shut.
And those faces sickened me; white and drawn and filled with the linesof deep suffering. All were covered with scars; long, narrow, deepscars, some fresh and red, others old and dead-white. At last, thesunken eyelids and the inability to see my flashlight and respond toldme the nauseating truth. Those men were all blind.
"Looking eternally into the blackness of his life andchained to a pillar of stone."]
A pleasant sight! One blind man, looking eternally into the blackness ofhis life, and chained to a pillar of stone--that was bad enough; butmultiply that by twenty! Was it worse? Could it be worse? Could twentymen suffer more